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WAVE RLE Y .NOVELS. 


Volume 19. 


THE ABBOT; 

/ 

BEING THE SEQUEL TO j y* 

/U S>" 7 

i 

THE MONASTERY. 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 


I. 




^)aAXu 


Tl — 


PARKER’S EDITION, 


KEVISED AND CORRECTED, WITH A GENERAL PREFACE, AN 
INTRODUCTION TO EACH NOVEL, AND NOTES, 
HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE, BY 


THE AUTHOR. 






PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL H. PARKER, BOSTON, FOR 
DESILVER, THOMAS, AND CO., 
PHILADELPIIIA. 


183G. 


IV 


INTRODUCTION TO 


farther egotism on this subject, as I have expressed my 
opinion very fully in the Introductory Epistle to the For- 
tunes of Nigel, first edition ; and, although it be composed 
in an imaginary character, it is as sincere and candid as 
if it had been written “ without my gown and band.” 

In a word, when I considered myself as having been 
unsuccessful in the Monastery, I was tempted to try 
whether I could not restore, even at the risk of totally 
losing, my so called reputation, by a new hazard — I look- 
ed round my library and could not but observe, that, from 
the time of Chaucer to that of Byron, the most popular 
authors had been the most prolific. Even the aristarch 
Johnson allowed that the quality of readiness and profu- 
sion had a merit in itself, independent of the intrinsic 
value of the composition. Talking of Churchill, I be- 
lieve, who had little merit in his prejudiced eyes, he al- 
lowed him that of fertility, with some such qualification 
as this, “ A crab apple can bear but crabs after all ; but 
there is a great difference in favour of that which bears a 
large quantity of fruit, however indifferent, and that which 
produces only a few.” 

Looking more attentively at the patriarchs of literature, 
whose career was as long as it was brilliant, I thought, I 
perceived that in the busy and prolonged course of exer- 
tion, there were no doubt occasional failures, but that still 
those who were favourites of their age triumphed over 
these miscarriages. By the new efforts which they made, 
their errors were obliterated, they became identified with 
the literature of their country, and after having long re- 
ceived law from the critics, came in some degree to im- 
pose it. And when such a writer was at length called 
from the scene, his death first made the pubjic sensible 
what a large share he had occupied in their attention. I 
recollected a passage in Grimm’s Correspondence, that 
while the unexhausted Voltaire sent forth tract after tract 
to the very close of a long life, the first impression made 
by each as it appeared, was, that it was inferior to its pre- 
decessors ; an opinion adopted from the general idea that 
the Patriarch of Ferney must at last find the point from 


THE ABBOT. 


V 


which he was to decline. But the opinion of the puhlip 
finally ranked in succession the last of Voltaire’s Essays 
on the same footing with those which had formerly charm- 
ed the French nation. The inference from this and sim- 
ilar facts seemed to me to be, that new works were often 
judged of by the public, not so much from their own in- 
trinsic merit, as from extrinsic ideas which readers had 
previously formed with regard to them, and over which 
a writer might hope to triumph by patience and by ex- 
ertion. There is a risk in the attempt 

If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim.” 

But this is a chance incident to every literary attempt, 
and by which men of a sanguine temper are little moved. 

1 may illustrate what I mean, by the feelings of most 
men in travelling. If we have found any stage particu- 
larly tedious, or in an especial degree interesting, partic- 
ularly short, or much longer than we expected, our im- 
aginations are so apt to exaggerate the original impression, 
that, on repeating the journey, we usually find that we 
have considerably over-rated the predominating quality, 
and the road appears to be duller or more pleasant, shorter 
or more tedious, than what we expected, and, consequent- 
ly, than what is the actual case. It requires a third or 
fourth journey to enable us to form an accurate judgment 
of its beauty, its length, or its other attributes. 

In the same manner, the public, judging of a new work, 
which it receives perhaps with little expectation, if sur- 
prised into applause, becomes very often ecstatic, gives a 
great deal more approbation than is due, and elevates the 
child of its immediate favour to a rank which, as it affects 
the author, it is equally difficult to keep and painful to 
lose. If, on this occasion, the author trembles at the 
height to which he is raised, and becomes afraid of the 
shadow of his own renown, he may indeed retire from the 
lottery with the prize which he has drawn, but, in future 
ages, his honour will be only in proportion to his labours. 
If, on the contrary, he rushes again into the lists, he is 
sure to be judged with severity proportioned to the former 


VI 


INTRODUCTION TO 


favour of the public. If he be daunted by a bad recep- 
tion on this second occasion, he may again become a 
stranger to the arena. If, on the contrary, he can keep 
his ground, and stand the shuttlecock’s fate, of being 
struck up and down, he will probably, at length, hold with 
some certainty the level in public opinion which he may 
be found to deserve ; and he may perhaps boast of ar- 
resting the general attention, in the same manner as the 
Bachelor Samson Carrasco, of fixing the weathercock 
La Giralda of Seville for weeks, months, or years, that is, 
for as long as the wind shall uniformly blow from one 
quarter. To this degree of popularity the author had the 
hardihood to aspire, while, in order to attain it, he assum- 
ed the daring resolution to keep himself in the view of 
the public by frequent appearances before them. 

It must be added, that the author’s incognito gave him 
the greater courage to renew his attempts to please the 
public, and an advantage similar to that which Jack the 
Giant-killer received from his coat of darkness. In 
sending the Abbot forth so soon after the Monastery, he 
had used the well-known practice recommended by Bas- 
sanio : — 


“ In my school days, when I had lost one shaft 
1 shot another of the self same flight, 

The self same way, with more advised watch, 

To find the other forth.” 

And, to continue the simile, his shafts, like those of the 
lesser Ajax, were discharged more readily that the archer 
was as inaccessible to criticism, personally speaking, as 
the Grecian archer under his brother’s sevenfold shield. 

Should the reader desire to know upon what principles 
the Abbot was expected to amend the fortune of the 
Monastery, I have first to request his attention to the In- 
troductory Epistle addressed to the imaginary Captain 
Clutterbuck ; a mode by which, like his predecessors in 
this walk of fiction, the real author makes one of his 
dramatis personce the means of communicating his own 
sentiments to the public, somewhat more artificially than 


THE ABBOT. 


Vll 


by a direct address to the readers. A pleasing French 
writer of fairy tales, Monsieur Pajon, author of the His- 
tory of Prince Soly, has set a diverting example of the 
same machinery, where he introduces the presiding Gen- 
ius of the land of Romance conversing with one of the 
personages of the tale. 

In this Introductory Epistle, the author communicates, 
in confidence, to Captain Clutterbuck, his sense that the 
White Lady had not met the taste of the times, and his 
reason for withdrawing her from the scene. The author 
did not deem it equally necessary to be candid respecting 
another alteration. The Monastery was designed, at first, 
to have contained some supernatural agency, arising out 
of the fact, that Melrose had been the place of deposit of 
the great Robert Bruce’s heart. The writer shrunk, 
how'ever, from filling up, in this particular, the sketch as 
it was originally traced ; nor did he venture to resume, 
in the continuation, the subject which he had left unat- 
tempted in the original work. Thus, the incident of the 
discovery of the heart, which occupies the greater part of 
the Introduction to the Monastery, is a mystery unneces- 
sarily introduced, and which remains at last very imper- 
fectly explained. In this particular, I was happy to 
shroud myself by the example of the author of “ Caleb 
Williams,” who never condescends to inform us of the 
actual contents of that Iron Chest which makes such a 
figure in his interesting work, and gives the name to Mr. 
Colman's drama. 

The public had some claim to enquire into this matter, 
but it seemed indifferent policy in the author to give the 
explanation. For, whatever praise may be due to the 
ingenuity which brings to a general combination all the 
loose threads of a narrative, like a knitter at the finishing 
of her stocking, I am greatly deceived if in many cases 
a superior advantage is not attained, by the air of reality 
which the deficiency of explanation attaches to a work 
written on a different system. In life itself, many things 
befall every mortal, of which the individual never knows 
the rea. cause or origin ; and were w^e to point out the most 


viii 


INTRODUCTION TO 


marked distinction between a real and a fictitious narra- 
tive, we would say, that the former, in reference to the 
remote causes of the events it relates, is obscure, doubt- 
ful, and mysterious ; whereas, in the latter case, it is a 
part of the author’s duty to afford satisfactory details upon 
the causes of the separate events he has recorded, and, 
in a word, to account for everything. The reader, like 
Mungo in the Padlock, will not be satisfied with hearing 
what he is not made fully to comprehend. 

I omitted, therefore, in the Introduction to the Abbot, 
any attempt to explain the previous story, or to apologize 
for unintelligibility. 

Neither would it have been prudent to have endeav- 
oured to proclaim, in the Introduction to the Abbot, the 
real spring, by which I hoped it might attract a greater 
degree of interest than its immediate predecessor. A 
taking title, or the announcement of a popular subject, is 
a recipe for success much in favour with booksellers, but 
which authors will not always find efficacious. The cause 
is worth a moment’s examination. 

There occur in every country some peculiar historical 
characters, which are, like a spell or charm, sovereign to 
excite curiosity and attract attention, since every one in 
the slightest degree interested in the land which they be- 
long to, has heard much of them, and longs to hear more. 
A tale turning on the fortunes of Alfred or Elizabeth in 
England, or of Wallace or Bruce in Scotland, is sure by 
the very announcement to excite public curiosity to a con- 
siderable degree, and ensure the publisher’s being reliev- 
ed of the greater part of an impression, even before the 
contents of the work are known. This is of the last im 
portance to the bookseller, who is at once, to use a tech 
nical phrase, “ brought home,” all his outlay being repaid. 
But it is a different case with the author, since it cannot 
be denied that we are apt to feel least satisfied with the 
works of which we have been induced, by titles and 
laudatory advertisements, to entertain exaggerated expec- 
tations. The intention of the work has been anticipated, 
and misconceived or misrepresented, and although the 


THE ABBOT. 


IX 


difficulty of executing the work again reminds us of Hot- 
spur’s task of “ o’ervvalking a current roaring loud,” yet 
the adventurer must look for more ridicule if he fails, than 
applause if he executes, his undertaking. 

Notwithstanding a risk, which should make authors 
pause ere they adopt a theme which, exciting general 
interest and curiosity, is often the preparative for disap- 
pointment, yet it would be an injudicious regulation which 
should deter the poet or painter from attempting to intro- 
duce historical portraits, merely from the difficulty of exe- 
cuting the task in a satisfactory manner. Something must 
be trusted to the generous impulse, which often thrusts 
an artist upon feats of which he knows the difficulty, 
while he trusts courage and exertion may afford the means 
of surmounting it. 

It is especially when he is sensible of losing ground 
with the public, that an author may be justified in using 
with address, such selection of subject or title as is most 
likely to procure a rehearing. It was with these feelings 
of hope and apprehension, that I ventured to awaken, in 
a work of fiction, the memory of Queen Mary, so inter- 
•esting by her wit, her beauty, her misfortunes, and the 
mystery which still does, and probably always will, over- 
hang her history. In doing so, I was aware that failure 
would be a conclusive disaster, so that my task was some- 
thing like that of an enchanter who raises a spirit over 
whom he is uncertain of possessing an effectual control ; 
and I naturally p^id atljention to such principles of com- 
position, as I conceived were best suited to the historical 
novel. 

Enough has been already said to explain the purpose 
of composing the Abbot. The historical references are, 
as usual, explained in the notes. That which relates to 
Queen Mary’s escape from Lochleven Castle, is a more 
minute account of that romantic adventure, than is to be 
found in the histories of the period. 

Abbotsford, ) 
January, 1831. ) 

1 VOL. I. 




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> • 



INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE 


FROM THR 

AUTHOR OF “ WAVERLEY,” 

TO 

CAPT. CLUTTERBUCK, 

OF HIS majesty’s REGIMENT OF INFANTRY. 


Dear Captain, 

I AM sorry to observe, by your last favour, that you dis- 
approve of the numerous retrenchments and alterations 
which 1 have been under the necessity of making on the 
Manuscript of your friend, the Benedictine ; and 1 wil- 
lingly make you the medium of apology to many, who 
have honoured me more than I deserve. 

I admit that my retrenchments have been numerous, 
and leave gaps in the story, which, in your original man- 
uscript, would have run well nigh to a fourth volume, as 
my printer assures me. I am sensible, besides, that, in 
consequence of the liberty of curtailment you have al- 
lowed me, some parts of the story have been huddled up 
without the necessary details. But, after all, it is better 
that the traveller should have to step over a ditch, than to 
wade through a morass — that the reader should have to 
suppose what may easily be inferred, than be obliged to 
creep through pages of dull explanation. I have struck 
out, for example, the whole machinery of the White Lady, 
and the poetry by which it is so ably supported, in the 
original manuscript. But you must allow thaUthe^'^blic 
taste gives little encouragement to those legendary su- 
perstitions, which formed alternately the delight and the 


4 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


terror of our predecessors. In like manner, much is 
omitted illustrative of the impulse of enthusiasm in favour 
of the ancient religion in Mother Magdalen and the Abbot. 
But we do not feel deep sympathy at this period with 
what was once the most powerful and animating principle 
in Europe, with the exception of that of the Reformation, 
by which it was successfully opposed. 

You rightly observe, that these retrenchments have 
rendered the title no longer applicable to the subject, and 
that some other would have been more suitable to the 
Work, in its present state, than that of The Abbot, who 
made so much greater figure in the original, and for whom 
your friend, the Benedictine, seems to have inspired you 
with a sympathetic respect. I must plead guilty to this 
accusation, observing, at the same time, in manner of ex- 
tenuation, that though the objection might have been easily 
removed, by giving a new title to the Work, yet, in doing 
so, I should have destroyed the necessary cohesion be- 
tween the present history, and its predecessor The Mon- 
astery, which I was unwilling to do, as the period, and 
several of the personages, were the same. 

After all, my good friend, it is of little consequence 
what the work is called, or on what interest it turns, pro- 
vided it catches the public attention ; for the quality of 
the wine (could we but ensure it) may, according to the 
old proverb, render the bush unnecessary, or of little con- 
sequence. 

I congratulate you upon your having found it consistent 
with prudence to establish your tilbury, and approve of 
the colour, and of your boy’s livery, (subdued green and 
pink.) — As you talk of completing your descriptive poem 
on the “ Ruins of Kennaquhair, with notes by an Anti- 
quary,” I hope you have procured a steady horse. — 1 
remain, with compliments to all friends, dear Captain, 
ch 

Your’s, &tc. &£c. &ic. 

The Author of Waverley. 


very r 


W 


THE ABBOT. 


CHAPTER I. 

Doniicm mansU — la7iam fecit. 

Ancient Roman Epitaph. 

She kecplt close the hous, and birlit at the quhele. • 

Gawain Douglas. 

The time which passes over our heads so impercepti- 
bly, makes the same gradual change in habits, manners, 
and character, as in personal appearance. At the rev- 
olution of every five years we find ourselves another, and 
yet the same — there is a change of views, and no less of 
the light in which we regard them ; a change of motives 
as well as of actions. Nearly twice that space had 
glided away over the head of Halbert Glendinning and 
his lady, betwixt the period of our former narrative in 
which they played a distinguished part, and the date at 
which our present tale commences. 

Two circumstances onlv had embittered their union, 
which was otherwise as happy as mutual affection could 
render it. The first of these was indeed the common 
calamity of Scotland, being the distracted state of that 
unhappy country, where every man’s sword was directed 
against his neighbour’s bosom. Glendinning had proved 
what Murray expected of him, a steady friend, strong in 
battle and wise in counsel, adhering to him from motives 
of gratitude, in situations where by his own unbiassed 
will he would either have stood neuter, or have joined 
the opposite party. Hence, when danger was near, and 
1 * VOL. 1. 


6 


THE ABBOT. 


it was seldom far distant, Sir Halbert Glendinning, for he 
now bore the rank of knighthood, was perpetually sum- 
moned to attend his patron on distant expeditions, or on 
perilous enterprizes, or to assist him witli his counsel in 
the doubtful intrigues of a half-barbarous court. He 
was thus frequently, and for a long space, absent from his 
castle and from his lady ; and to this ground of regret we 
must add, that their union had not been blessed with chil- 
dren, to occupy the attention of the Lady of Avenel, while 
she was tbiis deprived of her husband’s domestic society. 

On such occasions she lived almost entirely secluded 
from the world, within the walls of her paternal mansion. 
Visiting amongst neighbours was a matter entirely out of 
the question, unless on occasions of solemn festival, and 
then it was chiefly confined to near kindred. Of these 
the Lady of Avenel had none who survived, and the 
dames of the neighbouring barons affected to regard her 
less as the heiress of the flouse of Avenel, than as the 
wife of a peasant, the son of a church-vassal raised up to 
mushroom eminence by the capricious favour of Murray. 

This pride of ancestry, which rankled in the bosom of 
the ancient gentry, was more openly expressed by their 
ladies, and was, moreover, embittered not a little by the 
political feuds of the time, for most of the Southron 
chiefs were friends to the authority of the Queen, and very 
jealous of the power of Murray. The Castle of Avenel 
was, therefore, on all these accounts, as melancholy 
and solitary a residence for its lady as could well be im- 
agined. Still it had the essential recommendation of great 
security. The reader is already aware that the fortress 
was built upon an islet in a small lake, and was only ac- 
cessible by a causeway, intersected by a double ditch 
defended by two draw-bridges, so that without artillery, 
it might in those days be considered as impregnable. It 
wa^j^y necessary, therefore, to secure against surprise, 
ancTTne service of six able men within the castle was suf- 
ficient for that purpose. If more serious danger threat- 
ened, an ample garrison was supplied by the male inhab- 
itants of a little hamlet, which, under the auspices of 


THE ABBOT. 


7 


Halbert Glendinning, had arisen on a small piece of level 
ground, betwixt the lake and the hill, nearly adjoining to 
the spot where the causeway joined the mainland. The 
Lord of Avenel had found it an easy matter to procure in- 
habitants, as he was not only a kind and beneficent over- 
lord, but well qualified, both by his experience in arms, 
his high character for wisdom and integrity, and his fa- 
vour with the powerful Earl of Murray, to protect and 
defend those who dwelt under his banner. In leaving his 
castle for any length of time, he had therefore, the con- 
solation to reflect, that this village afforded, on the slight- 
est notice, a band of thirty stout men, which was more 
than sufficient for its defence ; while the families of the 
villagers, as was usual on such occasions, fled to the re- 
cesses of the mountains, drove their cattle to the same 
places of shelter, and left the enemy to work their will 
on their miserable cottages. 

One guest only resided generally, if not constantly, at 
the castle of Avenel. This was Henry Warden, who 
now felt himself less able for the stormy task imposed on 
the reforming clergy ; and having by his zeal given per- 
sonal offence to many of the leading nobles and chiefs, 
did not consider himself as perfectly safe, unless when 
within the walls of the strong mansion of some assured 
friend. He ceased not, however, to serve his cause as 
eagerly with his pen, as he had formerly done with his 
tongue, and had engaged in a furious and acrimonious 
cont(;st, concerning the sacrifice of the mass, as it was 
termed, with the Abbot Eustatius, formerly the Sub-Prior 
of Kennaquhair. Answers, replies, duplies, triplies, 
quadruplies, followed thick upon each other, and dis- 
played, as is not unusual in controversy, fully as much 
zeal as Christian charity. The disputation very soon be- 
came as celebrated as that of John Knox and the Abbot 
of Crosraguel, raged nearly as fiercely, and, for^^ht I 
know, the publications to which it gave rise may be^Wpre- 
cious in the eyes of bibliographers.^ But the engrossing 
nature of his occupation rendered the theologian not the 
most interesting companion for a solitary female ; and 


8 


THE ABBOT. 


his grave, stern, and absorbed deportment, which seldom 
showed any interest except in that which concerned his 
religious profession, made his presence rather add to than 
diminish the gloom which hung over the Castle of Avenel. 
To superintend the tasks of numerous female do- , 
mestics, was the principal part of the Lady’s daily em- 
ployment ; her spindle and distaff, her Bible, and a soli- 
tary walk upon the battlements of the castle, or upon the 
causeway, or occasionally, but more seldom, upon the 
banks of the little lake, consumed the rest of tJie day. 
But so great was the insecurity of the period, th^it when 
she ventured to extend her walk beyond the hamlet, the 
warder on the watch-tower was directed to keep a sharp 
look-out in every direction, and four or five men held 
themselves in readiness to mount and sally forth from the 
castle on the slightest appearance of alarm. 

Thus stood affairs at the Castle, when, after an absence 
of several weeks, the Knight of Avenel, which was now 
the title most frequently given to Sir Halbert Glend in- 
ning, was daily expected to return home. Day after day, 
however, passed away, and he returned not. Letters in 
those days were rarely written, and the Knight must have 
resorted to a secretary to express his intentions in that 
manner ; besides, intercourse of all kinds was precari- 
ous and unsafe, and no man cared to give any public in- 
timation of the time and direction of a journey, since, if his 
route were publicly known, it was always likely he might 
ill that case meet with more enemies than friends upon the 
road. The precise day, therefore, of Sir Halbert’s return 
was not fixed, but that which his lady’s fond expectation 
had calculated upon in her own mind had long since pass- 
ed, and hope delayed began to make the heart sick. 

It was upon the evening of a sultry summer’s day, 
when the sun was half sunk behind the distant western 
mountains of Liddesdale, that the Lady took her solitary 
wallf^T^ the battlements of a range of buildings, which 
formed the front of the Castle, where a fiat roof of flag- 
stones presented a broad and convenient promenade. 
The level surface of the lake, undisturbed except by the 


THE ABBOT. 


9 


occasional dipping of a teal-duck, or coot, was gilded 
with the beams of the setting luminary, and reflected, as 
if in a golden mirror, the hills amongst which it lay em- 
bosomed. The scene, otherwise so lonely, was oc- 
casionally enlivened by the voices of the children in 
the village, which, softened by distance, reached the ear 
of the Lady in her solitary walk, or by the distant call 
of the herdsman, as he guided his cattle from the glen 
in which they had pastured all day, to place them in 
greater security for the night, in the immediate vicinity 
of the village. The deep lowing of the cows seemed to 
demand the attendance of the milk-maidens, who, sing- 
ing shrilly and merrily, strolled forth each with her pail 
on her head, to attend to the duty of the evening. The 
Lady of Avenel looked and listened ; the sounds which 
she heard reminded her of former days, when her most 
important employment, as well as her greatest delight, 
was to assist Dame Glendinning and Tibb Tacket in milk- 
ing the cows at Glendearg. The thought was fraught 
with melancholy. 

“ Why was 1 not,” she said, the peasant girl which 
in all men’s eyes I seemed to be ! Halbert and 1 had theri 
spent our life peacefully in his native glen, undisturbed 
by the phantoms either of fear or of ambition. His 
greatest pride had then been to show the fairest herd in 
the Halidome ; his greatest danger to repel some pilfer- 
ing snatcher from the Border ; and the utmost distance 
which would have divided us, would have been the chase 
of some out-lying deer. But alas ! what avails the blood 
which Halbert has shed, and the dangers which he en- 
counters, to support a name and rank, dear to him be- 
cause he has it from me, but which we shall never trans- 
mit to our posterity ! With me the name of Avenel must 
expire.” 

She sighed as these reflections arose, and, looking Re- 
wards the shore of the lake, her eye was attracted by a 
group of children of various ages, assembled to see a 
little ship, constructed by some village artist, perform its 


10 


THE ABBOT. 


first voyage on the water. It was launched amid the 
shouts of liny voices and the clapping of little hands, and 
shot bravely forth on its voyage with a favouring wind, 
which promised to carry it to the other side of the lake. 
Some of the bigger boys ran round to receive and secure 
it on the farther shore, trying their speed against each 
other as they sprang like young fawns along the shingly 
verge of the lake. The rest, for whom such a journey 
seemed too arduous, remained watching the motions of 
the fairy vessel from the spot where it had been launched. 
The sight of their sports pressed on the mind of the 
childless Lady of Avenel. 

“ Why are none of these prattlers mine !” she con- 
tinued, pursuing the tenor of her melancholy reflections. 
“ Their parents can scarce find them the coarsest food 
— and I, who could nurse them in plenty, I am doomed 
never to hear a child call me mother !” 

The thought sunk on her heart with a bitterness which 
resembled envy, so deeply is the desire of offspring im- 
planted in the female breast. She pressed her hands to- 
gether as if she were wringing them in the extremity of 
her desolate feeling, as one whom Heaven had written 
childless. A large stag-hound of the greyhound species, 
approached at this moment, and, attracted perhaps by 
the gesture, licked her hands and pressed his large head 
against them. He obtained the desired caress in return, 
but still the sad impression remained. 

“ Wolf,” she said, as if the animal could have under- 
stood her complaints, “ thou art a noble and beautiful an- 
imal ; but alas ! the love and affection that I long to be- 
stow, is of a quality higher than can fall to thy share, 
though I love thee much.” 

And as if she were apologizing to Wolf for withholding 
from him any part of her regard, she caressed his proud 
he^djand crest, while, looking in her eyes, he seemed to 
ask her what she wanted, or what he could do to show 
his attachment. At this moment a shriek of distress was 
heard on the shore, from the playful group which had 


THE ABBOT. 


11 


been lately so jovial. The Lady looked, and saw the 
cause with great agony. 

The little ship, the object of the children’s delighted 
attention, had stuck among some tufts of the plant which 
bears the water-lily, that marked a shoal in the lake 
about an arrow-flight from the shore. A hardy little boy, 
who had taken the lead in the race round the margin of 
the lake, did not hesitate a moment to strip off his wylie- 
coat, plunge into the water, and swim towards the object 
of their common solicitude. The first movement of the 
Lady was to call for help ; but she observed that the boy 
swam strongly and fearlessly, and as she saw that one or 
two villagers, who were distant spectators of the incident, 
seemed to give themselves no uneasiness on his account, 
she supposed that he was accustomed to the exercise, 
and that there was no danger. But whether, in swim- 
ming, the boy had struck his breast against a sunken rock, 
or whether he was suddenly taken with cramp, or 
whether he had over-calculated his own strength, it so 
happened, that when he had disembarrassed the little 
plaything from the flags in which it was entangled, and 
sent it forward on its course, he had scarce swam a few 
yards in his way to the shore, than he raised himself sud- 
denly from the water and screamed aloud, clapping his 
hands at the same time with an expression of fear and 
pain. 

The Lady of Avenel instantly taking the alarm, called 
hastily to the attendants to get the boat ready. But this 
was an affair of some time. The only boat permitted to 
be used on the lake was moored within the second cut 
which intersected the canal, and it was several minutes 
ere it could be unmoored and got under way. Mean- 
time, the Lady of Avenel, with agonizing anxiety, saw 
that the efforts which the poor boy made to keep himself 
afloat, were now exchanged for a faint strugglijag, which 
would soon have been over, but for aid equally prompt 
and unhoped for. Wolf, who, like some of that large 
species of grey-hound, was a practised water-dog, had 
marked the object of her anxiety, and quitting his mis- 


12 


THE ABBOT. 


tress’s side, had sought the nearest point from which he 
could with safety plunge into the lake. With the won- 
derful instinct which these noble animals have so often 
displayed in the like circumstances, he swam straight to 
the spot where his assistance was so much wanted, and 
seizing the child’s under-dress in his mouth, he not only 
kept him afloat, but towed him towards the causeway. 
The boat having put off with a couple of men, met the 
dog half-way, and relieved him of his burden. They land- 
ed on the causeway, close by the gate of the castle, with 
their yet lifeless charge, and were there met by the Lady 
of Avenel, attended by one or two of her maidens, 
eagerly waiting to administer assistance to the sufferer. 

He was borne into the castle, deposited upon a bed, 
and every mode of recovery resorted to, which the know- 
ledge of the times, and the skill of Henry Warden, who 
professed some medical science, could dictate. For 
some time it was all in vain, and the Lady watched with 
unspeakable earnestness the pallid countenance of the 
beautiful child. He seemed about ten years old. His 
dress was of the meanest sort, but his long curled hair, 
and the noble cast of his features, partook not of that 
poverty of appearance. The proudest noble in Scotland 
might have been yet prouder could he have called that 
child his heir. While, with breathless anxiety, the Lady 
of Avenel gazed on his well-formed and expressive fea- 
tures, a slight shade of colour returned gradually to the 
cheek ; suspended animation became restored by de- 
grees, the child sighed deeply, opened his eyes, which 
to the human countenance produces the effect of light 
upon the natural landscape, stretched his arms towards 
the Lady, and muttered the word “ Mother,” that epi 
thet, of all others, which is dearest to the female ear. 

“ God, madam,” said the preacher, “ has restored the 
chUd to your wishes ; it must be yours so to bring him 
up, that he may not one day wish that he had perished 
in his innocence.” 


THE ABBOT. 


13 


‘‘ It shall be my charge,” said the Lady ; and again 
throwing her arms around the boy, she overwhelmed him 
with kisses and caresses, so much was she agitated by 
the terror arising from the danger in which he had been 
just placed, and by joy at his unexpected deliverance. 

“ But you are not my mother,” said the boy, recover- 
ing his recollection, and endeavouring, though faintly, to 
escape from the caresses of the Lady of Avenel “ you 
are not my mother — alas ! I have no mother — only I 
have dreamt that I had one.” 

“ 1 will read the dream for you, my love,” answered 
the Lady of Avenel ; “ and I will be myself your mother. 
Surely God has heard my wishes, and, in his own mar- 
vellous manner, hath sent me an object on which my af- 
fections may expand themselves !” She looked towards 
Warden as she spoke. The preacher hesitated what he 
should reply to a burst of passionate feeling, which, per- 
haps, seemed to him more enthusiastic than the occasion 
demanded. In the meanwhile, the large stag-hound, 
Wolf, which, dripping wet as he was, had followed his 
mistress into the apartment, and had sat by the bed-side 
a patient and quiet spectator of all the means used for 
resuscitation of the being whom he had preserved, now 
became impatient of remaining any longer unnoticed, and 
began to whine and fawn upon the Lady with his great 
rough paws. 

Yes,” she said, “ good Wolf, and you shall be re- 
membered also for your day’s work ; and I will think 
the more of you for having preserved the life of a crea- 
ture so beautiful.” 

But Wolf was not quite satisfied with the share of at- 
tention which he thus attracted ; he persisted in whining 
and pawing upon his mistress, his caresses render- 
ed still more troublesome by his long shaggy hair being 
so much and thoroughly wetted, till she desired one of 
the domestics, with whom he was familiar, to call the 
animal out of the apartment. Wolf resisted every invi- 
tation to this purpose, until his mistress positively cora- 

2 VOL. I. 


14 


THE ABBOT. 


manded him to begone, in an angry tone ; when, turning 
towards the bed on which the boy still lay, half awake 
to sensation, half drowned in the meanders of a fluctu- 
ating delirium, he uttered a deep and savage growl, curl- 
ed up his nose and lips, showing his full range of white 
and sharpened teeth, which might have matched those 
of an actual wolf, and then, turning round, sullenly fol- 
lowed the domestic out of the apartment. 

“ It is singular,” said the Lady, addressing Warden ; 

“ the animal is not only so good-natured to all, but so 
particularly fond of children. What can ail him at the 
little fellow whose life he has saved 

“ Dogs,” replied the preacher, “ are but too like the 
human race in their foibles, though their instinct be less 
erring than the reason of poor mortal man when relying 
upon his own unassisted powers. Jealousy, my good 
lady, is a passion not unknown to them, and they often 
evince it, not only with respect to the preferences which 
they see given by their masters to individuals of their 
own species, but even when their rivals are children. 
You have caressed that child much and eagerly, and the 
dog considers himself as a discarded favourite.” 

“ It is a strange instinct ;” said the Lady, “ and from 
the gravity with which you mention it, my reverend 
friend, I would almost say that you supposed this singular 
jealousy of my favourite, Wolf, was not only well found- 
ed, but justifiable. But perhaps you speak in jest?” 

“ I seldom jest,” answered the preacher ; “ life was 
not lent to us to be expended in that idle mirth which re- 
sembles the crackling of thorns under the pot. 1 would 
only have you derive, if it so please you, this lesson from ^ 
what I have said, that the best of our feelings, when in- 
dulged to excess, may give pain to others. There is but 
one in which we may indulge to the utmost limit of vehe- 
mence of which our bosom is capable, secure that excess 
cannot exist in the greatest intensity to which it can be 
excited — I mean the love of our Maker.” 

“ Surely,” said the Lady of Avenel, “ we are com- 
manded by the same authority to love our neighbour 


THE ABBOT. 


15 


“ Ay, madam,” said Warden, “ but our love to God is 
to be unbounded — we are to love him with our whole 
heart, our whole soul, and our whole strength. The love 
which the precept commands us to bear to our neigh- 
bour, has affixed to it a direct limit and qualification — 
we are to love our neighbour as ourself; as it is else- 
where explained by the great commandment, that we must 
do unto him as we would that he should do unto us. Here 
there is a limit, and a bound, even to the most praise- 
worthy of pur affections, so far as they are turned upon 
sublunary and terrestrial objects. We are to render to 
our neighbour, whatever be his rank or degree, that cor- 
responding portion of affection with which we could ra- 
tionally expect we should ourselves be regarded by those 
standing in the same relation to us. Hence, neither 
husband nor wife, neither son nor daughter, neither friend 
nor relation, are lawfully to be made the objects of our 
idolatry. The Lord our God is a jealous God, and will 
not endure that we bestow on the creature that extremity 
of devotion which He who made us demands as his own 
share. I say to you, lady, that even in the fairest and 
purest, and most honourable feelings of our nature, there 
is that original taint of sin which ought to make us pause 
and hesitate ere we indulge them to excess.” 

“ I understand not this, reverend sir,” said the lady ; 

nor do I guess what I can have now said or done, to 
draw down on me an admonition which has something a 
taste of reproof.” 

“ Lady,” said Warden, “ I crave your pardon, if I 
have urged aught beyond the limits of my duty. But 
-consider, whether in the sacred promise to be not only a 
protectress, but a mother to this poor child, your purpose 
may meet the wishes of the noble Knight your husband. 
The fondness which you have lavished on the unfortu- 
nate, and, I own, most lovely child, has met something 
like a reproof in the bearing of your household dog. — 
Displease not your noble husband. Men, as well as an- 
imals, are jealous of the affections of those they love.” 


16 


THE ABBOT. 


“ This is too much, reverend sir,” said the Lady of 
Avenel, greatly offended. “ You have been long our 
guest, and have received from the Knight of Avenel and 
myself that honour and regard which your character and 
profession so justly demand. Bull am yet to learn that 
we have at any time authorized your interference in our 
family arrangements, or placed you as a judge of our 
conduct towards each other. I pray this may be forborne 
in future.” 

“ Lady,” replied the preacher, with the boldness pe- 
culiar to the clergy of his persuasion at that time, “ when 
you weary of my admonitions — when I see that my ser- 
vices are no longer acceptable to you, and the noble 
Knight your husband, I shall know that my Master wills 
me no longer to abide here ; and, praying for a contin- 
uance of his best blessings on your family, I will then, 
were the season the depth of winter, and the hour mid- 
night, walk out on yonder waste, and travel forth through 
these wild mountains, as lonely and unaided, though far 
more helpless, than when I first met your husband in the 
valley of Glendearg. But while I remain here, I will 
not see you err from the true path, no, not a hair’s- 
breadth, without making the old man’s voice and remon- 
strance heard.” 

“ Nay, but,” said the lady, who both loved and re- » 
spected the good man, though sometimes a little offended 
at what she conceived to be an exuberant degree of zeal, 

we will not part this way, my good friend. Women 
are quick and hasty in their feelings ; but, believe me, 
my wishes and my purposes towards this child are such 
as both my husband and you will approve of.” The- 
clergyman bowed, and retreated to his own apartment. 


THE ABBOT, 


17 


CHAPTER II. 

How steatlfastly he fix’d his eyes on me — 

His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears — 

Then stretch’d his little arms and call’d me mother ! 

What could I do ? I took the bantling home — 

I could not tell the imp he had no mother. 

Count Basil. 

When Warden had left the apartment, the Lady of 
Avenel gave way to the feelings of tenderness which the 
sight of the boy, his sudden danger, and his recent escape, 
had inspired ; and no longer awed by the sternness, as 
she deemed it, of the preacher, heaped with caresses the 
lovely and interesting child. He was now, in some meas- 
ure, recovered from the consequences of his accident, 
and received passively, though not without wonder, the 
tokens of kindness with which he was thus loaded. The 
face of the lady was strange to him, and her dress dif- 
ferent and far more sumptuous than any he remembered. 
But the boy was naturally of an undaunted temper ; and 
indeed children are generally acute physiognomists, and 
not only pleased by that which is beautiful in itself, but 
peculiarly quick in distinguishing and replying to the at- 
tentions of those who really love them. If they see a 
person in company, though a perfect stranger, who is by 
nature fond of children, the little imps seem to discover 
it by a sort of free-masonry, while the awkward attempts 
of those who make advances to them for the purpose of 
recommending themselves to the parents, usually fail in 
attracting their reciprocal attention. The little boy, 
therefore, appeared in some degree sensible of the lady’s 
caresses, and it was with difficulty she withdrew herself 
from his pillow, to afford him leisure for necessary repose. 

2* VOL. I. 


IS 


THE ABBOT. 


“ To whom belongs our little rescued varlet was 
the first question which the Lady of Avenel put to her 
handmaiden Lilias, when they had retired to the hall. 

“ To an old woman in the hamlet,” said Lilias, “ who 
is even now come so far as the porter’s lodge to inquire 
concerning his safety. Is it your pleasure, that she be 
admitted 

“ Is it my pleasure ?” said the Lady of Avenel, echo- 
ing the question with a strong accent of displeasure and 
surprise ; “ can you make any doubt of it What wo- 
man but must pity the agony of the mother, whose heart 
is throbbing for the safety of a child so lovely!” 

“ Nay, but, madam,” said Lilias, “ this woman is too 
old to be the mother of the child ; I rather think she 
must be his grandmother, or some more distant relation.” 

“ Be she who she will, Lilias,” replied the Lady, “ she 
must have an aching heart while the safety of a creature 
so lovely is uncertain. Go instantly and bring her hither. 
Besides, I would willingly learn something concerning 
his birth.!’ 

Lilias left the hall, and presently afterwards returned, 
ushering in a tall female very poorly dressed, yet with 
more pretension to decency and cleanliness than was 
usually combined with such coarse garments. The Lady 
of Avenel knew her figure the instant she presented her- 
self. It was the fashion of the family, that upon every 
Sabbath, and on two evenings in the week besides, Henry 
Warden preached or lectured in the chapel at the Castle. 
The extension of the Protestant faith was, upon principle, 
as well as in good policy, a primary object with the Knight 
of Avenel. The inhabitants of the village were therefore 
invited to attend upon the instructions of Henry Warden, 
and many of them were speedily won to the doctrine 
which their master and '‘protector approved. These ser- 
mons, homilies, and lectures, had made a great impres- 
sion on the mind of the Abbot Eustace, or Eustatius, and 
weve a sufficient spur to the severity and sharpness of his 
controversy with his old fellow-collegiate : and, ere Queen 
Mary was dethroned, and while the Catholics still had 


THE ABBOT. 


19 


considerable authority in the Border provinces, he more 
than once threatened to levy his vassals, and assail and 
level with the earth that stronghold of heresy the Castle 
of Avenel. But notwithstanding the Abbot’s impotent re- 
sentment, and notwithstanding also the disinclination of 
the country to favour the new religion, Henry Warden 
proceeded without remission in his labours, and made 
weekly converts from the faith of Rome to that of the 
reformed church. Amongst those who gave most earnest 
and constant attendance on his ministry, was the aged 
w'oman, whose form, tall, and otherwise too remarka- 
ble to be forgotten, the lady had of late observed fre- 
quently as being conspicuous amongst the little audience. 
She had indeed more than once desired to know who 
that stately-looking woman was, whose appearance was so 
much above the poverty of her vestments. But the re- 
ply had always been, that she was an English woman, who 
was tarrying for a season at the hamlet, and that no one 
knew more concerning her. She now asked her after 
her name and birth. 

Magdalen Grasme is my name,” said the woman ; 
“ I come of the Grsemes of Heathergill, in Nicol-forest? 
a people of ancient blood.” 

“ And what make you,” continued the lady, “ so far 
distant from your home .^” 

“ 1 have no home,” said Magdalen Grseme, “ it was 
burnt by your Border-riders — my husband and my son 
were siain — there is not a drop’s blood left in the veins 
of any one which is of kin to mine.’' 

“ That is no uncommon fate in these wild times, and 
in this unsettled land,” said the lady 5 “ the English hands 
have been as deeply dyed in our blood as ever those of 
Scotsmen have been in yours.” 

“ You have right to say it; Lady,” answered Mag 
dalen Gr^rne ; ‘‘ for men tell of a time when this Castle 
was not strong enough to save your father’s life, or to 
afford your mother and her infant a place of refuge. And 
why ask ye me, then, wherefore I dwell not in mine own 
home, and with mine own people 


23 


THE ABBOT. 


‘‘ It was indeed an idle question,” answered the Lady, 
‘‘ where misery so often makes wanderers ; but wherefore 
take refuge in a hostile country ?” 

“ My neighbours were Popish and mass-mongers,” 
said the old woman ; “ it has pleased Heaven to give me 
a clearer sight of the gospel, and I have tarried here to 
enjoy the ministry of that worthy man, Henry Warden, 
who, to the praise and comfort of many, teacheth the 
Evangel in truth and in sincerity.” 

“ Are you poor again demanded the Lady of 
Avenel. 

“ You hear me ask alms of no one,” answered the 
English-woman. 

Here there was a pause. The manner of the woman 
was, if not disrespectful, at least much less than gracious ; 
and she appeared to give no encouragement to farther 
communication. The Lady of Avenel renewed the con- 
versation on a different topic. 

“ You have heard of the danger in which your boy 
has been placed 

“ I have, lady, and how by an especial providence^he 
was rescued from death. May Heaven make him thank- 
ful, and me !” 

“ What relation do you bear to him?” 

“ I am his grandmother, lady, if it so please you ; the 
only relation he hath left upon earth to take charge of 
him.” 

“ The burden of his maintenance must necessarily 
be grievous to you in your deserted situation?” pursued 
the lady. 

“ I have complained of it to no one,” said Magdalen 
Graeme, with the same unmoved, dry, and unconcerned 
tone of voice, in which she had answered all the former 
questions. 

“ If,” said the Lady of Avenel, “ your grandchild 
could be received into a noble family, would it not ad- 
vantage both him and you ?” 

“ Received into a noble family !”^said the old woman, 
drawing herself up, and bending her tn-ows until her fore- 


THE ABBOT. 


21 


head was wrinkled into a frown of unusual severity ; 
“ and for what purpose, I pray you ? — to be my lady’s 
page, or my lord’s jackman, to eat broken victuals, and 
contend with other menials for the remnants of the mas- 
ter’s meal f Would you have him to fan the flies from my 
lady’s face while she sleeps, to carry her train while she 
walks, to hand her trencher when she feeds, to ride before 
her on horseback, to walk after her on foot, to sing when 
she lists, and to be silent when she bids ? — a very weath- 
ercock, which, though furnished in appearance with wings 
and plumage, cannot soar into the air — cannot fly from 
the spot where it is perched, but receives all its impulses, 
and performs all its revolutions, obedient to the change- 
ful breath of a vain woman ? When the eagle of Hei- 
vellyn perches on the tower of Lanercost, and turns and 
changes his place to show how the wind sits, Roland 
Graeme shall be what you would make him.” 

The woman spoke with a rapidity and vehemence 
which seemed to have in it a touch of insanity ; and a 
sudden sense of the danger to which the child must ne- 
ces^ily be exposed in the charge of such a keeper, 
increased the lady’s desire to keep him in the castle if 
possible. 

“ You mistake me, dame,” she said, addressing the old 
woman in a soothing manner ; “ I do not wish your boy 
to be in attendance on myself, but upon the good Knight, 
my husband. Were he himself the son of a belted earl, 
he could not better be trained to arms, and all that befits 
a gentleman, than by the instructions and discipline of 
Sir Halbert Glendinning. 

“ Ay,” answered the old woman in the same style of 
bitter irony, “ 1 know the wages of that service ; — a 
curse when the corslet is not sufficiently brightened, — a 
blow when the girth is not tightly drawn, — to he beaten 
because the hounds are at fault, — to be reviled because 
the foray is unsuccessful, — to stain his hands, for the mas- 
ter’s bidding, in the blood alike of beast and of man,^ 
to be a butcher of harmless deer, a murderer and defacer 
of God’s own image, not at his own pleasure, but at that 


22 


THE ABBOT. 


of his lord ; to live a brawling ruffian, and a common 
slabber, — exposed to heat, to cold, to want of food, to all 
the privations of an anchoret, not for the love of God, but 
for the service of Satan, — to die by the gibbet, or in some 
obscure skirmish, — to sleep out his brief life in carnal 
security, and to awake in the eternal fire, which is never 
quenched.” 

“ Nay,” said the Lady of Avenel, “ but to such un- 
hallowed course of life your grandson will not be here 
exposed. My husband is just and kind to those who live 
under his banner ; and you yourself well know, that youth 
have here a strict as well as a good preceptor in the per- 
son of our chaplain.” 

The old woman appeared to pause. 

“ You have named,” she said, “ the only circumstance 
which can move me. I must soon onward, the vision has 
said it — I must not tarry in the same spot — 1 must on — 
I must on, it is my weird. — Swear, then, that you will 
protect the boy as if he were your own, until I return 
hither and claim him, and I will consent for a space to 
part with him. But especially swear, he shall not lack 
the instruction of the godly man who hath placed the 
gospel-truth high above these idolatrous shavelings, the 
monks and friars.” 

“ Be satisfied, dame,” said the Lady of Avenel the 
hoy shall have as much care as if he were born of my 
own blood. Will you see him now .^” 

“ No,” answered the old woman, sternly ; “ to part is 
enough. I go forth on my own mission. I will not soften 
my heart by useless tears and wailings, as one that is not 
called to a duty.” 

“ Will you not accept of something to aid you in your 
pilgrimage said the Lady of Avenel, putting into her 
hand two crowns of the sun. The old woman flung, them 
down on the table. 

“ Am I of the race of Cain,” she saidj/* pr^u^'lady, 
that you offer me gold in exchange for my own flesh and 
blood r 


the abbot. 


23 


“ I had no such meaning,” said the lady, gently ; nor 
am I the proud woman you term me. Alas ! my own 
fortunes might have taught me humility, even had it not 
been born with me.” 

The old woman seemed somewhat to relax her tone 
of severity. 

“ You are of gentle blood,” she said, “ else we had 
not parleyed thus long together. You are of gentle blood, 
and to such,” she added, drawing up her tall form as she 
spoke, “ pride is as graceful as is the plume upon the 
bonnet. But, for these pieces of gold, lady, you must 
needs resume them. I need not money. 1 am well pro- 
vided ; and I may not care for myself, nor think how, or 
by whom, I shall be sustained. Farewell, and keep your 
word. Cause your gates to be opened, and your bridges 
to be lowered. I will set forward this very night. When 
I come again, 1 will demand from you a strict account, 
for I have left with you the jewel of my life ! Sleep 
will visit me but in snatches, food will not refresh me, 
rest will not restore ray strength, until I see Roland 
Graeme. Once more, farewell.” 

“ Make your obeisance, dame,” said Lilias to Magda- 
len Graeme, as she retired ; “ make your obeisance to her 
ladyship, and thank her for her goodness, as is but fitting 
and right.” 

The old woman turned short round on the officious 
waiting-maid. “ Let her make her obeisance to me then, 
and I will return it. Why should I bend to her f — is it 
because her kirtle is of silk, and mine of blue lockeram ? 
— Go to, my lady’s waiting-woman. Know that the rank 
of the man rates that of the wife, and that she who mar- 
ries a churl’s son, were she a king’s daughter, is but a 
peasant’s bride.” 

Lilias was about to reply in great indignation, but her 
mistress imposed silence on her, and commanded that the 
old woman should be safely conducted to the main-land. 

“ Conduct her safe !” exclaimed the incensed waiting- 
woman, while Magdalen Graeme left the apartment ; “ 1 
say, duck her in the loch, and then we will see whether 


24 


THE ABBOT. 


she is witch or not, as every body in the village of Loch- 
side will say and swear. I marvel your ladyship could 
bear so long with her insolence.” But the commands of 
the lady were obeyed, and the old dame, dismissed from 
the castle, was committed to her fortune. She kept her 
word, and did not long abide in that place, leaving the 
hamlet on the very night succeeding the interview, and 
wandering no one asked whither. The Lady of Avenel 
inquired under what circumstances she had appeared 
among them, but could only learn that she was believed 
to be the widow of some man of consequence, among the 
Graemes, who then inhabited the Debateable Land ; a name 
given to* a certain portion of territory which was the fre- 
quent subject of dispute betwixt Scotland and England — 
that she had suffered great WTong in some of the frequent 
forays by which that unfortunate district was wasted, and 
had been driven from her dwelling-place. She had ar- 
rived in the hamlet no one knew for what purpose, and 
was held by some to be a witch, by others a zealous Pro- 
testant, and by others again a Catholic devotee. Her lan- 
guage was mysterious, and her manners repulsive ; and all 
that could be collected from her conversation seemed to 
imply that she was under the influence either of a spell or 
of a vow, — there was no saying which, since slie talked as 
one who acted under a pow^erful and external agency. 

Such were the particulars which the lady’s inquiries were 
able to collect concerning Magdalen Graeme, being far too 
meagre and contradictory to authorize any satisfactory de- 
duction. In truth, the miseries of the time, and the various 
turns of fate incidental to a frontier country, were perpetu- 
ally chasing from their habitations those who had not the 
means of defence or protection. These wanderers in the 
land were too often seen, to excite much attention or 
sympathy. They received the cold relief which was ex- 
torted by general feelings of humanity ; a little excited 
in some breasts and perhaps rather chilled in others, by 
the recollection that they who gave the charity to-day 
might themselves want it to-morrow. Magdalen Graeme, 


THE ABBOT. 


25 


therefore, came and departed like a shadow' from the 
neighbourhood of Avenel Castle. 

The boy whom Providence, as she thought, had thus 
strangely placed under her care, was at once established 
a favourite with the Lady of the Castle. How could it 
be otherwise He became the object of those affection- 
ate feelings, which, finding formerly no object on which 
to expand themselves, had increased the gloom of the 
Castle, and embittered the solitude of its mistress. To 
teach him reading and writing as far as her skill went, to 
attend to his childish comforts, to watch his boyish sports, 
became the lady’s favourite amusement. In her circum- 
stances, where the ear only heard the lowing of the cattle 
from the distant hills, or the heavy step of the w^arder as 
he walked upon his post, or the half-envied laugh of her 
maiden as she turned her wheel, the appearance of the 
blooming and beautiful boy gave an interest which can 
hardly be conceived by those who live amid gayer or 
busier scenes. Young Roland was to the Lady of Avenel 
what the flower, which occupies the wdndovv of some sol- 
itary captive, is to the poor wight by w^hom it is nursed 
and cultivated, — something which at once excited and re- 
paid her care ; and in giving the boy her affection, she 
felt, as it were, grateful to him for releasing her from the 
state of dull apathy in which she had usually found her- 
self during the absence of Sir Halbert Glendinning. 

But even the charms of this blooming favourite were un- 
able to chase the recurring apprehensions which arose from 
her husband’s procrastinated return. Soon after Roland 
Graeme became a resident at the Castle, a groom, des- 
patched by Sir Halbert, brought tidings that business of 
importance still delayed the Knight at the Court of Holy- 
rood. The more distant period which the messenger 
had assigned for his master’s arrival at length glided away, 
summer melted into autumn, and autumn was about to 
give place to winter, and yet he came not. 

3 VOL. I. 


26 


THE ABBOT. 


CHAPTER III. 

V 

The waning harvest-moon shone broad and bright, 

The warder’s honi was heard at dead of night, 

And while the folding portals wide were flung, 

With trampling hoofs the rocky pavement rung. 

Leyden. 

“ And you too would be a soldier, Roland ?” said the 
Lady of Avenel to her young charge, while, seated on a 
stone chair at one end of the battlements, she saw the 
boy attempt, with a long stick, to mimic the motions of 
the warder, as he alternately shouldered, or ported, or 
sloped pike. 

“ Yes, lady,” said the boy, for he was now familiar, 
and replied to her questions with readiness and alacrity, 

a soldier will I be ; for there ne’er was gentleman 
but who belted him with the brand.” 

“ Thou a gentleman !” said Lilias, who, as usual, was 
in attendance ; “ such a gentleman as I would make of 
a bean-cod with a rusty knife.” 

“ Nay, chide him not, Lilias,” said the Lady of Ave- 
nel, “ for, beshrew me, but I think he comes of gentle 
blood — see how it musters in his face at your injurious 
reproof.” 

“ Had I my will, madam,” answered Lilias, “ a good 
birchen wand should make his colour muster to better 
purpose still.” 

“ On my word, Lilias,” said the lady, “ one would 
think you had received harm from the poor boy — or is he 
so far on the frosty side of your favour because he enjoys 
the sunny side of mine 

“ Over heavens forbode, my lady!” answered Lilias ; 
“ 1 have lived too long with gentles, I praise my stars for 
it, to fight with either follies or fantasies, whether they 
relate to beast, bird, or boy.” 


THE ABBOT. 


27 


Lilias was a favourite in her own class, a spoiled do- 
mestic, and often accustomed to take more license 
than her mistress was at all limes willing to encourage. 
But what did not please the Lady of Avenel, she did not 
choose to hear, and thus it was on the present occasion. 
She resolved to look more close and sharply after the boy, 
who had hitherto been committed chiefly to the manage- 
ment of Lilias. He must, she thought, be born of gen- 
tle blood ; it were shame to think otherwise of a form so 
noble, and features so fair ; — the very wildness in which 
he occasionally indulged, his contempt of danger, and im- 
patience of restraint, had in them something noble ; — as- 
suredly the child was born of high rank. Such w'as her 
conclusion, and she acted upon it accordingly. The 
domestics around her, less jealous, or less scrupulous 
than Lilias, acted as servants usually do, following the 
bias, and flattering, for their own purposes, the humour 
of the lady ; and the boy soon took on him those airs of 
superiority, which the sight of habitual deference seldom 
fails to inspire. It seemed, in truth, as if to command 
were his natural sphere, so easily did he use himself to 
exact and receive compliance with his humours. The 
chaplain, indeed, might have interposed to check the air 
of assumption which Roland Graeme so readily indulged, 
and most probably would have willingly rendered hitn that 
favour ; but the necessity of adjusting with his brethren 
some disputed points of church discipline had withdrawn 
him for some time from the Castle, and detained him in 
a distant part of the kingdom. 

Matters stood thus in the Castle of Avenel, when a 
winded bugle sent its shrill and prolonged notes from the 
shore of the lake, and was replied to cheerily by the sig- 
nal of the warder. The Lady of Avenel knew the sounds 
of her husband, and rushed to the window of the apart- 
ment in which she was sitting. A band of about thirty 
spearmen, with a pennon displayed before them, winded 
along the indented shores of the lake, and approached 
the causeway. A single horseman rode at the head of 
the party, his bright arms catching a glance of the Octo- 


28 


THE ABBOT. 


ber sun as he moved steadily along. Even at that dis- 
tance, the lady recognized the lofty plume, bearing the 
mingled colours of her own liveries and those of Glendon- 
wyne, blended with the holly-branch ; and the firm seat 
and dignified demeanour of the rider, joined to the stately 
motion of the dark-brown steed, sufficiently announced 
Halbert Glendinning. 

The lady’s first thought was that of rapturous joy at 
her husband’s return — her second was connected with a 
fear which had sometimes intruded itself, that lie might 
not altogether approve the peculiar distinction with which 
she had treated her orphan ward. In this fear there was 
implied a consciousness, that tlie favour she had shown 
him was excessive ; for Halbert Glendinning was at least 
as gentle and indulgent, as he was firm and rational in 
the intercourse of his household ; and to her in particular, 
his conduct had ever been most affectionately tender. 

Yet she didTear, that, on the present occasion, her con- 
duct might incur Sir Halbert’s censure ; and hastily re- 
solving that she would not mention the anecdote of the 
boy until the next day, she ordered him to be withdrawn 
from the apartment by Lilias. 

“ 1 will not go with Lilias, madam,” answered the 
spoiled child, who had more than once carried his point 
by perseverance, and who, like his betters, delighted in 
the exercise of such authority, — “ 1 will not go to Lilias’s 
gousty room — 1 will stay and see that brave warrior who 
comes riding so gallantly along the drawbridge.” 

“ You must not stay, Roland,” said the lady, more 
positively than she usually spoke to her little favourite. 

“ I will,” reiterated the boy, who had already felt his 
consequence, and the probable chance of success. 

“ You will, Roland !” answered the lady, “ what 
manner of word is that I tell you, you must go.” 

“ Will,^^ answered the forward boy, “ is a word for a 
man, and must is no word for a lady.” 

“ You are saucy, sirrah,” said the lady — “ Lilias, take 
him with you instantly.” 


THE ABBOT. 


29 


“ I always thought,” said Lilias, smiling, as she seized 
the reluctant boy by the arm, “ that my young master 
must give place to my old one.” 

“ And you, too, are malapert, mistress?” said the lady ; 
“ hath the moon changed, that ye all of you thus forget 
yourselves 

Lilias made no reply, but led off the boy, who, too 
proud to offer unavailing resistance, darted at his bene- 
factress a glance, which intimated plainly how willingly 
he would have defied her authority had he possessed the 
power to make good his point. 

The Lady of Avenel was vexed to find how much this 
trifling circumstance had discomposed her, at the mo- 
ment when she ought naturally to have been entirely en- 
grossed by her husband’s return. But we do not recover 
composure by the mere feeling that agitation is’mistimed. 
The glow of displeasure had not left the lady’s cheek, her 
ruffled deportment was not yet entirely composed, when 
her husband, unhelmeted, but still wearing the rest of his 
arms, entered the apartment. His appearance banished 
the thoughts of everything else ; she rushed to him, 
clasped his iron-sheathed frame in her arms, and kissed 
his martial and manly face with an affection which was 
at once evident and sincere. The warrior returned her 
embrace and her caress with the same fondness ; for the 
time which had passed since their union had diminished 
its romantic ardour, perhaps, but it had rather increased its 
rational tenderness, and Sir Halbert Glendinning’s long 
and frequent absences from his castle had prevented af- 
fection from degenerating by habit into indifference. 

When the first eager greetings were paid and receiv- 
ed, the lady gazed fondly on her husband’s face as she 
remarked, — 

“ You are altered. Halbert — you have ridden hard and 
far to-day, or you have been ill?” 

“ I have been well, Mary,” answered the Knight, 
“ passing well have I been ; and a long ride is to me, 
thou well knovvest, but a thing of constant custom. Those 
3 * VOL. I. 


30 


THE ABBOT. 


who are born noble may slumber out tbeir lives within 
the walls of tbeir castles and manor-houses ; but be who 
hath achieved nobility by bis own deeds mustev^er be in 
the saddle, to show that he merits his advancement.” 

While he spoke thus the lady gazed fondly on him, as 
if endeavouring to read his inmost soul ; for the tone in 
which he spoke was that of melancholy depression. 

Sir Halbert Glendinning was the same, yet a different 
person from what he had appeared in his early years. 
The fiery freedom of the aspii ing youth had given place 
to the steady and stern composure of the approved sol- 
dier and skilful politician. There were deep traces of 
care on those noble features, over which each emotion 
used formerly to pass, like light clouds across a summer 
sky. That sky was now, not perhaps clouded, but still 
and grave like that of the sober autumn evening. The 
forehead was higher and more bare than in early youth, 
and the locks which still clustered thick and dark on the 
warrior’s head, were worn away at the temples, not by 
age, but by the constant pressure of the steel cap, or hel- 
met. His beard, according to the fashion of the times, 
grew short and thick, and was turned into mustachios on 
the upper lip, and peaked at the extremity. Tlie cheek, 
weather-beaten and embrowned, had lost the glow of 
youth, but showed the vigorous complexion of active and 
confirmed manhood. Halbert Glendinning was, in a word, 
a knight to ride at a king’s right hand, to bear his banner 
in war, and to be his counsellor in lime of peace ; for 
his looks expressed the considerate firmness which can 
resolve wisely and dare boldly. Still, over these noble 
features, there now spread an air of dejection, of which, 
perhaps, the owner was not conscious, but which did not 
escape the observation of his anxious and affectionate 
partner. 

“ Something has happened, or is about to happen,” 
said the Lady of Avenel ; “ this sadness sits not on your 
brow without cause — misfortune, national or particular, 
must needs be at hand.” 


THE ABBOT. 


31 


“ There is nothing new that I wot of,” said Halbert 
Glendinning ; “ but there is little of evil which can be- 
fall a kingdom that may not be apprehended in this 
unhappy and divided realm.” 

“ Nay, then,” said the lady, “ I see there hath really 
been some fatal work on foot. My Lord of Murray has 
not so long detained you at Holyrood, save that he want- 
ed your help in some weighty purpose.” 

“ 1 have not been at Holyrood, Mary,” answered the 
Knight ; “ I have been several weeks abroad.” 

“ Abroad ! and sent me no word replied the lady. 

“ What would the knowledge have availed, but to have 
rendered you unhappy, my love?” replied the Knight ; 
“ your thouglits would have converted the slightest breeze 
that curled your own lake, into a tempest raging in the 
German ocean.” 

“ And have you then really crossed the sea ?” said the 
lady, to whom the very idea of an element which she had 
never seen conveyed notions of terror and of wonder, — 
“ really left your own native land,and trodden distant shores, 
where the Scottish tongue is unheard and unknown ?” 

“ Really, and really,” said the Knight, taking her hand 
in affectionate playfulness, “ I have done this marvellous 
deed — have rolled on the ocean for three days and three 
nights, with the deep green waves dashing by the side of 
•my pillow, and but a thin plank to divide me from it.” 

“ Indeed, my Halbert,” said the lady, “ that was a 
tempting of Divine Providence. 1 never bade you un- 
buckle the sword from your side, or lay the lance from 
your hand — I never bade you sit still when your honour 
called you to rise and ride ; but are not blade and spear 
dangers enough for one man’s life, and why would you 
trust rough waves and raging seas ?” 

“ We have in Germany, and in the Low Countries, as 
they are called,” answered Glendinning, “ men vyho are 
united with us in faith, and with whom it is fitting we 
should unite in alliance. To some of these I was de- 
spatched on business as important as it was secret. I 
went in safety, and 1 returned in security ; there is more 


33 


THE ABBOT. 


danger to a man’s life betwixt this and Holyrood, than 
in all the seas that wash the lowlands of Holland.” 

“ And the country, my Halbert, and the people,” said 
the lady, “ are they like our kindly Scots? or what bear- 
ing have they to strangers 

“ They are a people, Mary, strong in their wealth, 
which renders all other nations weak, and weak in those 
arts of war by which other nations are strong.” 

“ I do not understand you,” said the lady. 

“ Thj Hollander and the Fleming, Mary, pour forth 
their spirit in trade, and not in war ; their wealth pur- 
chases them the arms of foreign soldiers, by whose aid 
they defend it. They erect dykes on the sea-shore to 
protect the land which they have won, and they levy reg- 
iments of the stubborn Switzers and hardy Germans to 
protect the treasures which they have amassed. And 
thus they are strong in their weakness ; for the very 
wealth which tempts their masters to despoil them, arms 
strangers in their behalf.” 

“ The slothful hinds !” exclaimed Mary, thinking and 
feeling like a Scotswoman of the period ; “ have they 
hands, and fight not for the land which bore them 
They should be notched off at the elbow!” 

“ Nay, that were but hard justice,” answered her hus- 
band ; “ for their hands serve their country, though not 
in battle, like ours. Look at these barren hills, Mary, 
and at that deep winding vale by which the cattle are even 
now returning from their scanty browse. The hand of 
the industrious Fleming would cover these mountains with 
wood, and raise corn where we now see a starved and 
scanty sward of heath and ling. It grieves me, Mary, 
when I look on that land, and think what benefit it might 
receive from such men as 1 have lately seen — men who 
seek not the idle fame derived from dead ancestors, or 
the bloody renown won in modern broils, but tread along 
the land as preservers and improvers, not as tyrants and 
destroyers.” 

“These amendments would here be but a vain fancy, 
my Halbert,” answered the Lady of Avenel ; “ the trees 


THE ABBOT. 


33 


would be burned by the English foeman, ere they ceased 
to be shrubs, and the grain that you raised would be gath- 
ered in by the first neighbour that possessed more riders 
than follow your train. Why should you repine at this? 
The fate that made you Scotsman by birth, gave you 
head, and heart, and hand, to uphold the name as it must 
needs be upheld.” 

“ It gave me no name to uphold,” said Halbert, pacing 
the floor slowly ; “ my arm has been foremost in every 
strife — my voice has been heard m every council, nor 
have the wisest rebuked me. The crafty Lethington, 
the deep and dark Morton, have held secret council with 
me, and Grange and Lindsay have owned, that in the 
field 1 did the devoir of a gallant knight — but let the emer- 
gence be passed when they need tny head and hand, 
and they only know me as son of the obscure portioner 
of Glendearg.” 

This was a theme which the lady always dreaded ; for 
the rank conferred on her husband, the favour in which 
be was held by the powerful Earl of Murray, and tlie 
high talents by which he vindicated his right to that rank 
and that favour, were qualities which rather increased than 
diminished the envy which was harboured against Sir Hal- 
bert Glendinning among a proud aristocracy, as a person 
originally of inferior and obscure birth, who had risen to his 
present eminence solely by his personal merit. The natu- 
ral firmness of his mind did not enable him to despise the 
ideal advantages of a higher pedigree, which were held in 
such universal esteem by all with whom he conversed ; and 
so open are the noblest minds to jealous inconsistencies, that 
there were moments in which he felt mortified that his 
lady should possess those advantages of birth and high 
descent which he himself did not enjoy, and regretted 
that his importance as the proprietor of Avenel was qual- 
ified by his possessing it only as the husband of the heir- 
ess. He was not so unjust as to permit any unworthy 
feelings to retain permanent possession of his mind, but 
yet they recurred from time to time, and did not escape 
his lady’s anxious observation. 


34 


THE ABBOT. 


Had we been blessed with children,’’ she was wont 
on such occasions to say to herself, “ had our blood 
been united in a son who might have joined my ad- 
vantages of descent with my husband’s personal worth, 
these painful and irksome reflections had not disturbed 
our union even for a moment. But the existence of 
such an heir, in whom our affections, as well as our pre- 
tensions, might have centered, has been denied to us.” 

With such mutual feelings, it cannot be wondered that 
it gave the lady pain to hear her husband verging towards 
this topic of mutual discontent. On the present, as on 
other similar occasions, she endeavoured to divert the 
Knight’s thoughts from this painful channel. 

“ How can you,” she said, “ suffer yourself to dwell 
upon things which profit nothing ? Have you indeed 
no name to uphold ? You, the good and the brave, the 
wise in council and the strong in battle, have you not to 
support the reputation your own deeds have won, a re- 
putation -more honourable than mere ancestry can sup- 
ply ? Good men love and honour you, the wicked fear, 
and the turbulent obey you ; and is it not necessary you 
should exert yourself to insure the endurance of that 
love, that honour, that wholesome fear, and that neces- 
sary obedience 

As she thus spoke, the eye of her husband caught 
from her’s courage and comfort, and it lightened as he 
took her hand and replied, “ It is most true, my Mary, 
and I deserve thy rebuke, who forget what I am, in re- 
pining because I am not what I cannot be. I am now 
what the most famed ancestors of those I envy were, the 
mean man raised into eminence by his own exertions ; and 
sure it is a boast as honourable to have those capacities 
which are necessary to the foundation of a family, as to be 
descended from one who possessed them some centuries 
before. The Hay of Loncarly, who bequeathed his 
bloody yoke to his lineage, — the “ dark grey man,” 
who first founded the house of Douglas, had yet less of 
ancestry to boast than 1 have. For thou knowest, Ma- 
ly, that my name derives itself from a line of ancient 


THE ABBOT. 


35 


warriors, although my immediate forefathers preferred 
the humble station in which thou didst first find them ; 
and war and counsel are not less proper to the house of 
Glendonwyne, even in its most remote descendants, than 
to the proudest of their baronage.”^ 

He strode across the hall as he spoke, and the lady 
smiled internally to observe how much his mind dwelt 
upon the prerogatives of birth, and endeavoured to es- 
tablish his claims, however remote, to a share in them, 
at the very moment when he affected to hold them in 
contempt. It will easily be guessed, however, that she 
permitted no symptom to escape her that could show she 
was sensible of the weakness of her husband, a perspi- 
cacity which perhaps his proud spirit could not very easily 
have brooked. 

As he returned from the extremity of the hall, to 
which he had stalked w-hile in the act of vindicating the 
title of the House, of Glendonwyne in its most remote 
branches to the full privileges of aristocracy, “ Where,” 
he said, “ is Wolf 1 have not seen him since my re- 
turn, and he was usually the first to welcome my home- 
coming.” 

“ Wolf,” said the lady, with a slight degree of em- 
barrassment, for which, perhaps, she would have found it 
difficult to assign any reason even to herself, “ Wolf is 
chained up for the present. He hath been surly to my 
page.” 

“ Wolf chained up — and Wolf surly to your page !” 
answered Sir Halbert Glendinning ; “ Wolf never was 
surly to any one ; and the chain will either break his 
spirit or render him savage — So ho, there — set Wolf 
free directly.” 

He was obeyed ; and the huge dog rushed into the 
hall, disturbing, by his unwieldy and boisterous gambols, 
the whole economy of reels, rocks, and distaffs, with which 
the maidens of the household were employed when the 
arrival of their lord was a signal to them to withdraw, and 
extracting from Lilias, who was summoned to put them 
again in order, the natural observation, “ That the laird’s 
pet was as troublesome. as-the lady’s page.” 


36 


THE AEBOT. 


‘‘ And who is this page, Mary said the Knight, his 
attention again called to the subject by the observation 
of the waiting-woman — “ Who is this page whom every 
one seems to weigh in the balance with my old friend 
and favourite. Wolf ? — When did you aspire to the dig- 
nity of keeping a page, or who is the boy 

“ I trust, my Halbert,” said the lady, not without a 
blush, “ you will not think your wife entitled to less at- 
tendance than other ladies of her quality?” 

“ Nay, Dame Mary,” answered the Knight, “ it is 
enough you desire such an attendant. — Yet 1 have never 
loved to nurse such useless menials — a lady’s page — it 
may well suit the proud English dames to have a slender 
youth to bear their trains from bower to hall, fan them 
when they slumber, and touch the lute for them when 
they please to listen ; but our Scottish matrons were 
wont to be above such vanities, and our Scottish youth 
ought to be bred to the spear and the stirrup.” 

“ Nay, but, my husband,” said the lady, 1 did but 
jest when I called this boy my page ; he is in sooth a 
little orphan whom we saved from perishing in the lake, 
and whom I have since kept in the Castle out of charity. 
Lilias, bring little Roland hither.” 

Roland entered accordingly, and, flying to the lady’s 
side, took hold of the plaits of her gown, and then turn- 
ed round, and gazed with an attention, not unmingled 
wdth fear, upon the stately form of the knight. — “ Ro- 
land,” said the lady, “ go kiss the hand of the noble 
knight, and ask him to be thy protector.” — But Roland 
obeyed not, and, keeping his station, continued to gaze 
fixedly and timidly on Sir Halbert Glendinning. — “ Go 
to the knight, boy,” said the lady ; “ what dost thou 
fear, child ? Go, kiss Sir Halbert’s hand.” 

“ I will kiss no hand save yours, lady,” answered the 
boy. 

“ Nay, but do as you are commanded, child,” replied 
the lady. — “ He is dashed by your presence,” she said, 
apologizing to her husband ; “ but is he not a handsome 


THE ABBOT. 


37 


“ And so is Wolf,” said Sir Halbert, as he patted his 
huge four-footed favourite, “ a handsome dog ; but he 
has this double advantage over your new favourite, that 
he does what he is commanded, and hears not when he 
is praised.” 

“ Nay, now you are displeased with me,” replied the 
lady ; “ and yet why should you be so f There is noth- 
ing wrong in relieving the distressed orphan, or in loving 
that which is in itself lovely and deserving of affection. 
But you have seen Mr. Warden at Edinburgh, and he 
has set you against the poor boy.” 

“ My dear Mary,” answered her husband, ‘‘ Mr. 
W arden better knows his place than to presume to inter- 
fere either in your affairs or in mine. I neither blame 
your relieving this boy,noryour kindness for him. But, 
I think, considering his birth and prospects, you ought 
not to treat him with injudicious fondness, which can on- 
ly end in rendering him unfit for the humble situation to 
which Heaven has designed him 

“ Nay, but, my Halbert, do but look at the boy,” said 
the lady, “ and see whether he has not the air of being 
intended by Heaven for something nobler than a mere 
peasant. May he not be designed, as others have been, 
to rise out of a humble situation into honour and emi- 
nence .^” 

Thus far had she proceeded, when the consciousness 
that she was treading upon delicate ground at once oc- 
curred to her, and induced her to take the most natural, 
but the worst of all courses on such occasions whether in 
conversation or in an actual bog, namely, that of stopping 
suddenly short in the illustration which she had commenc- 
ed. Her brow crimsoned, and that of Sir Halbert Glen- 
dinning was slightly overcast. But it was only for an in- 
stant; for he was incapable of mistaking his lady’s meaning, 
or supposing that she meant intentional disrespect to him. 

‘‘ Be it as you please, my love,” he replied ; “ I owe 
you too much, to contradict you in aught which may ren- 
der your solitary mode of life more endurable. Make 
4 VOL. I. 


38 


THE ARI50T. 


of this youth what you will, and you have my full au- 
thority for doing so. But remember he is your charge, 
not mine — remember he hath limbs to do ntan’s service, 
a soul and a tongue to worship God ; breed him, there- 
fore, to be true io his country, and to Heaven ; and for 
the rest, dispose of him as you list — it is, and shall rest, 
your own matter.” 

This conversation decided the fate of Roland Grteme, 
w'ho from thenceforward was little noticed by the master 
of the mansion of Avenel, but indulged and favoured by 
its mistress. 

This situation led to many important consequences, 
and, in truth, tended to bring forth the character of the 
youth in all its broad lights and deep shadows. As the 
Knight himself seemed tacitly to disclaim alike interest 
and control over the immediate favourite of his lady, 
young Roland was, by circumstances, exempted from 
the strict discipline to which, as the retainer of a Scot- 
tish man of rank, he would otherwise have been subject- 
ed, according to all the rigour of the age. But the 
steward, or master of the household, such was the proud 
title assumed by the head domestic of each petty baron, 
deemed it not advisable to interfere with the favourite of 
the lady, and especially since she had brought the estate 
into the present family. Master Jasper Wingate was a 
man experienced, as he often boasted, in the ways of 
great families, and knew how to keep the steerage even 
when wind and tide chanced to be in contradiction. 

This prudent personage winked at much, and avoided 
giving opportunity for further offence, by requesting little 
of Roland Graeme beyond the degree of attention which 
he was himself disposed to pay ; rightly conjecturing, 
that however lowly the place which the youth might hold 
in the favour of the Knight of Avenel, still to make an 
evil report of him would make an enemy of the lady, 
without securing the favour of her huslaand. With 
these prudential considerations, and doubtless not with- 
out an eye to Ins owji ease and convenience, he tauglu 
the boy as much, and only as much, as he chose to learn 


THE ABBOT. 


39 


readily admitting whatever apology it pleased his pupil 
to allege in excuse for idleness or negligence. As the 
other persons in the Castle, to whom such tasks were 
delegated, readily imitated the prudential conduct of the 
major-domo, there was little control used towards Ro- 
land Graeme, who, of course, learned no more than what 
a very active mind, and a total impatience of absolute 
idleness, led him to acquire upon his own account, and 
ny dint of his own exertions. The latter were especially 
earnest, when the Lady herself condescended to he his 
tutoress, or to examine his progress. 

It followed also from his quality as my lady’s favourite, 
that Roland was viewed with no peculiar good-will by the 
followers of the Knight, many of whom, of the same age, 
and apparently similar origin, with the fortunate page, 
were subjected to severe observance of the ancient and 
rigorous discipline of a feudal retainer. To these, Ro- 
land Graeme was of course an object of envy, and in 
consequence, of dislike and detraction ; but the youth 
possessed qualities which it was impossible to depreciate. 
Pride, and a sense of early ambition, did for him what 
severity and constant instruction did for others. In 
truth, the youthful Roland displayed that early flexibility 
both of body and mind, which renders exercise, either 
mental or bodily, rather matter of sport than of 
study ; and it seemed as if he acquired accidentally, 
and by starts, those accomplishments, which earnest and 
constant instruction, enforced by frequent reproof and 
occasional chastisement, had taught to others. Sucli 
military exercises, such lessons of the period as he found 
it agreeable or convenient to apply to, he learned so per- 
fectly, as to confound those who were ignorant how often 
the want of constant application is compensated by vivacity 
of talent and ardent enthusiasm. The lads, therefore, who 
were more regularly trained to arms, to horsemanship, and 
to other necessary exercises of the period, while they en- 
vied Roland Graeme the indulgence or negligence with 
which he seemed to be treated, had little reason to boast of 
their own superior acquirements ; a few hours, with the 
powerful exertion of a most energetic will, seemed to do 


40 


THE ABBOT. 


for him more than the regular instruction of weeks could 
accomplish for others. 

Under these advantages, if, indeed, they were to be 
termed such, the character of young Roland began to 
develope itself. It was bold, peremptory, decisive, and 
over-bearing; generous, if neither withstood nor contra- 
dicted ; vehement and passionate, if censured or oppos- 
ed. He seemed to consider himself as attached to no 
one, and responsible to no one, except his mistress; and 
even over her mind he had gradually acquired that species 
of ascendency which indulgence is so apt to occasion. 
And although the immediate followers and dependants of 
Sir Halbert Glendinning saw his ascendency with jeal- 
ousy, and often took occasion to mortify his vanity, there 
wanted not those who were willing to acquire the favour 
of the Lady of Avenel by humouring and taking part with 
the youth whom she protected ; for although a favourite, as 
the poet assures us, has no friend, he seldom fails to have 
both followers and flatterers. The partizans of Roland 
Graeme were chiefly to be found amongst the inhabitants 
of the little hamlet on the shore of the lake. These 
villagers, who were sometimes tempted to compare their 
own situation with that of the immediate and constant 
followers of the Knight, who attended him on his fre- 
quent journeys to Edinburgh and elsewhere, delighted in 
considering and representing themselves as more proper- 
ly the subjects of the Lady of Avenel than of her hus- 
band. It is true, her wisdom and alFection on all occa- 
sions discountenanced the distinction which was here 
implied ; but the villagers persisted in thinking it must 
be agreeable to her to enjoy their peculiar and undivided 
homage, or at least in acting as if they thought so ; and 
one chief mode by which they evinced their sentiments, 
was by the respect they paid to young Roland Grceme, 
the favourite attendant of the descendant of their ancient 
lords. This was a mode of flattery too pleasing to en- 
counter rebuke or censure ; and the opportunity which 
it afforded the youth to form, as it were, a party of his 
own within the limits of the ancient barony of Avenel, 


THE ABBOT. 


41 


added not a little to the audacity and decisive tone of a 
character, which was by nature bold, impetuous, and in- 
controllable. 

Of two members of the household who had manifest- 
ed an early jealousy of Roland Graeme, the prejudices 
of Wolf were easily overcome ; and in process of time 
the noble dog sleptwithBran, Luarth, and the celebrated 
hounds of ancient days. But Mr. Warden, the chaplain, 
lived, and retained his dislike to the youth. That good 
man, single-minded and benevolent as he really was, 
entertained rather more than a reasonable idea of the 
respect due to him as a minister, and exacted from the 
inhabitants of the Castle more deference than the haugh- 
ty young page, proud of his mistress’s favour, and petu- 
lant frotn youth and situation, was at all times willing to"' 
pay. His bold and free demeanour, his attachment to 
rich dress and decoration, his inaptitude to receive in- 
struction, and his hardening himself against rebuke, were 
circumstances which induced the good old man, with 
more haste than charity, to set the forward page down as 
a vessel of wrath, and to presage that the youth nursed 
that pride and haughtiness of spirit which goes before 
ruin and destruction. On the other hand Roland evinced 
at times a marked dislike, and even something like con- 
tempt, of the chaplain. Most of the attendants and follow- 
ers of Sir Halbert Glendinning, entertained the same char- 
itable thoughts as the reverend Mr. Warden ; but while 
Rolajad" was favoured by their lady, and endured by their 
lord, they saw no policy in making their opinions public. 

Roland Graeme was sufficiently sensible of the unpleas- 
ant situation in which he stood ; but in the haughtiness 
of his heart he retorted upon the other domestics the 
distant, cold, and sarcastic manner in which they treated 
him, assumed an air of superiority which compelled the 
most obstinate to obedience, and had the satisfaction at 
least to be dreaded, if he was heartily hated. 

The chaplain’s marked dislike had the effect of re- 
commending him to the attention of Sir Halbert’s brother 
Edward, who now, under the conventual appellation of 
4 * VOL. I. 


42 


THE ABBOT. 


of Father Ambrose, continued to be one of the few 
monks who, with the Abbot Eustatius, had, notwithstand- 
ing the nearly total downfall of their faith under the 
regency of Murray, been still permitted to linger in 
the cloisters at Kennaquhair. Respect to Sir Halbert 
had prevented their being altogether driven out of the 
Abbey, though their order was now in a great measure 
suppressed, and they were interdicted the public exer- 
cise of their ritual, and only allowed for their support a 
small pension out of their once splendid revenues. 
Father Ambrose, thus situated, was an occasional, though 
very rare visitant, at the Castle of Avenel, and was at 
such times observed to pay particular attention to Ro- 
land Graeme, who seemed to return it with more depth 
•of feeling than consisted with his usual habits. 

Thus situated, years glided on, during which the 
Knight of Avenel continued to act a frequent and impor- 
tant part in the convulsions of his distracted country ; 
while young Graeme anticipated, both in wishes and per- 
sonal accomplishments, the age which should enable him 
to emerge from the obscurity of his present situation. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Amid their cups that freely flow’d, 

Their revelry and mirth, 

A youthful lord taxed Valentine 
With base and doubtful birth. 

Valentine and Orson. 

When Roland Graeme was a youth about seventeen 
years of age, he chanced one summer morning to de- 
scend to the mew in which Sir Halbert Glendinning kept 
his hawks, in order to superintend the training of an 
eyas, or young hawk, which he himself, at the imminent 
risk of neck and limbs, had taken from a celebrated 
eyry in the neighbourhood, called Gledscraig. As he 
was by no means satisfied with the attention which had 
been bestowed on his favourite bird, he was not slack in 


THE ABBOT. 


43 


testifying bis displeasure to the falconer’s lad, whose duty 
it was to have attended upon it. 

‘‘ What, ho ! sir knave,” exclaimed Roland, is it 
thus you feed the eyas with unwashed meat, as if you 
were gorging the foul brancher of a worthless hoodie- 
crow? by the mass, and thou hast neglected its castings 
also for these two days! Think’st thou I ventured my 
neck to bring the bird down from the craig that thou 
shouldst spoil her by thy neglect ?” And to add force 
to his remonstrances, he conferred a cuff or two on the 
negligent attendant of the hawks, who, shouting rather 
louder than was necessary under all the circumstances, 
brought the master falconer to his assistance. 

Adam Woodcock, the falconer of Avenel, was an 
Englishman by birth, but so long in the service of Glen- 
dinning, that he had lost much of his national attachment in 
that which he had formed to his master. He was a fa- 
vourite in his department, jealous and conceited of his 
skill, as masters of the game usually are ; for the rest of 
his character, he was a jester and a parcel poet, (qualities 
which by no means abated his natural conceit,) a jolly 
fellow, who, though a sound Protestant, loved a flagon of 
ale better than a long sermon, a stout man of his hands 
when need required, true to his master, and a little pre- 
suming on his interest with him. 

Adam Woodcock, such as we have described him, by 
no means relished the freedom used by young Grterne, 
in chastising his assistant. “ Hey, hey, my lady’s page,” 
said he, stepping between his own boy and Roland, 
“ fair and softly, an it like your gilt jacket — hands off 
is fair play — if my boy has done amiss, 1 can beat him 
myself, and then you may keep your hands soft.” 

“ 1 will beat him and thee too,” answered Roland, 
without hesitation, “ an ye look not better after your 
business. See how the bird is cast away between you. 
I found the careless lurdane feeding her with unwashed 
flesh, and she an eyas.”* 

" There is a diflercnce amongst authorities how lono the nestling hawk 
should be fed with !!esh wliich has j)reviously been washed. 


44 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Go to,” said the falconer, “ thou art but an eyas 
thyself, child Roland. Whatknowest thou of feeding f 
I say that the eyas should have her meat unwashed, 
until she becomes a brancher — ’twere the ready way to 
give her the frounce, to wash her meat sooner, and so 
knows every one who knows a gled from a falcon.” 

“ It is thine own laziness, thou false English blood, 
that dost nothing but drink and sleep,” retorted the 
page, “ and leaves that lither lad to do the work, which 
he minds as little as thou.” 

“ And am 1 so idle, then,” said the falconer, “ that 
have three cast of hawks to look after, at perch and 
mew, and to fly them in the field to boot ? — and is my 
lady’s page so busy a man that he must take me up 
short r* — and amloffalse English blood ? — I marvel what 
blood thou art — neither Englander nor Scot — fish nor 
flesh — a bastard from the Debateable Land, without eith- 
er kith, kin, or ally !- — Marry, out upon thee, foul kite, 
that would fain be a tercel gentle !” 

The reply to this sarcasm was a box on the ear, so 
well applied, that it overthrew the falconer into the cis- 
tern in which water was kept for the benefit of the 
hawks. Up started Adam Woodcock, his wrath nowise 
appeased by the cold immersion, and seizing on a trun- 
cheon which stood by, vvould have soon requited the injury 
he had received, had not Roland laid his hand on his pon- 
iard, and sworn by all that was sacred, that if he offered 
a stroke towards him, he would sheath the blade in his 
bowels. The noise was now so great, that more than 
one of the household came in, and amongst others the 
major-domo, a grave personage, already mentioned, 
whose gold chain and white wand intimated his authori- 
t)\ At the appearance of this dignitary, the strife was 
for the present appeased. He embraced, however, so 
favourable an opportunity, to read Roland Grsme a 
shrewd lecture on the impropriety of his deportment to 
his fellow-menials, and to assure him, that, should he 
communicate this fray to his master, (who, though now 
on one of his frequent expeditions, was speedily expect- 
ed to return,) which but for respect to his lady he would 


THE ABBOT. 


45 


most certainly do, the residence of the culprit in the 
Castle of Avenel would be but of brief duration. “ But, 
how^ever,” added the prudent master of the household, 
“ I will report the matter first to my lady.” 

“ Very just, very right. Master Wingate,” exclaimed 
several voices together ; “ my lad}^ will consider if dag- 
gers are to be drawn on us for every idle word, and 
whether we are to live in a well-ordered household, 
where there is the fear of God, or amongst drawn dirks 
and sharp knives.” 

The object of this general resentment darted an an- 
gry glance around him, and suppressing with difficulty 
the desire which urged him to reply in furious or in con- 
temptuous language, returned his dagger into the scab- 
bard, looked disdainfully around upon the assembled 
menials, turned short upon his heel, and pushing aside 
those who stood betwixt him and the door, left the apart- 
ment. 

“ This will be no tree for my nest,” said the falcon- 
er, “ if this cock-sparrow is to crow over us as he seems 
to do.” 

“ He struck me with his switch yesterday,” said one 
of the grooms, “ because the tail of his worship’s gelding 
was not trimmed altogether so as suited his humour.” 

“ And I promise you,” said the laundress, “ my young 
master will stick nothing to call an honest woman slut and 
quean, if there be but a speck of soot upon his band-collar.” 

“ If Master Wingate do not his ermnd to my lady,” 
was the general result, “ there will be no tarrying in 
the same house with Roland Graeme.” 

The master of the household heard them all for some 
time, and then, motioning for universal silence, he ad- 
dressed them with all the dignity of Malvolio himself. — 
“ My masters, — not forgetting you, my mistresses, — do 
not think the worse of me that I proceed with as much 
care as haste in this matter. Our master is a gallant 
knight, and will have his sway at home and abroad, in 
wood and field, in hall and bower, as the saying is. Our 
lady, my benison upon her, is also a noble person of 


46 


THE ABBOT. 


long descent, and rightful heir of this place and barony, 
and she also loves her will j as for that matter, show me 
the woman who doth not. Now, she hath favoured, 
doth favour, and will favour, this jack-an-apes,— for what 
good part about him I know not, save that as one noble 
lady will love a messan dog, and another a screaming 
popinjay, and a third a Barbary ape, so doth it please 
our noble dame to set her affections upon this stray elf 
of a page, for nought that I can think of, save that she 
was the cause of his being saved (the more’s the pity) 
from drowning.” And here Master Wingate made a 
pause. 

“ I would have been his caution for a grey groat against 
salt water or fresh,” said Roland’s adversary, the falcon- 
er ; “ marry, if he crack not a rope for stabbing or for 
snatching, I will be content never to hood hawk again.” 

“ Peace, Adam Woodcock,” said Wingate, waving 
his hand ; “ 1 prithee, peace, man — Now, my lady liking 
this springald as aforesaid, differs therein from my lord, 
who loves never a bone in his skin. Now, is it for me to 
stir up strife betwixt them, and put as ’twere my finger 
betwixt the bark and the tree, on account of a pragmat- 
ical youngster, whom, nevertheless, I would willingly see 
whipped forth of the barony ? Have patience, and this 
bile will break without our meddling. 1 have been in 
service since I wore a beard on my chin, till now that 
that beard is turned grey, and I have seldom known any 
one better them^lves, even by taking the lady’s part 
against the lord’s ; but never one who did not dirk him- 
self, if he took the lord’s against the lady’s.” 

“ And so,” said Lilias, “ we are to be crowed over, eve- 
ry one of ns, men and women, cock and hen, by this little 
upstart ? — I will try titles with him first, I promise you. 
— I fancy. Master Wingate, for as wise as you look, you 
will be pleased to tell what you have seen to-day, if my 
lady commands you?” 

“ To speak the truth when my lady commands me,” 
answered the prudential major-domo, “ is in some meas- 
ure my duty. Mistress Lilias ; always providing for and 


V THE ABBOT. 


47 


excepting those cases in which it cannot be spoken with' 
out breeding mischief and inconvenience to myself or 
my fellow-servants 5 for the tongue of a tale-bearer 
breaketh bones as well as a Jeddart stafT.”'^ 

“ But this imp of Satan is none of your friends or fel- 
low-servants,” said Lilias ; “ and I trust you mean not 
to stand up for him against the whole family besides ?” 

“ Credit me, Mrs. Lilias,” replied the senior, “ should 
I see the time fitting, I would with right good-will give 
him a lick with the rough side of my tongue.” 

“ Enough said, Master Wingate,” , answered Lilias ; 
“ then trust me his song shall soon be laid. If my mis- 
tress does not ask me what is the matter below stairs be- 
fore she be ten minutes of time older, she is no born 
woman, and my name is not Lilias Bradbourne.” 

In pursuance of her plan. Mistress Lilias failed not to 
present herself before her mistress with all the exterior 
of one who is possessed of an important secret, — that is, 
she had the corners of her mouth turned down, her eyes 
raised up, her lips pressed as fast together as if they had 
been sewed up, to prevent her blabbing, and an air of 
prim mystical importance diffused over her whole person 
and demeanour, which seemed to intimate, “ I know 
something which I am resolved not to tell you !” 

Lilias, had rightly read her mistress’s temper, who, wise 
and good as she was, was yet a daughter of grandame 
Eve, and could not witness this mysterious bearing on the 
part of her waiting-woman without longing to ascertain 
the secret cause. For a space, Mrs. Lilias was obdu- 
rate to all inquiries, sighed, turned her eyes up higher 
yet to heaven, hoped for the best, but had nothing par- 
ticular to communicate. All this, as was most natural 
and proper, only stimulated the lady’s curiosity ; neither 
was her importunity to be parried with, — “ Thank God, 
I am no makebate — no tale-bearer, — thank God, I never 
envied any one’s favour, or was anxious to propale their 
misdemeanour — only thank God there has been no blood- 
shed and murder in the house — that is all.” 


48 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Bloodshed and murder !” exclaimed the lady, 
“ what does the quean mean ? — if you speak not plain 
out, you shall have something you will scarce be thank- 
ful for.” 

“ Nay, my lady,” answered Lilias, eager to disburden 
her mind, or, in Chaucer’s phrase, to ‘ unbuckle her 
mail,’ “ if you bid me speak out the truth, you must not 
be moved with what might displease you — Roland 
Gr 2 eme has dirked Adam Woodcock — that is all.” 

“ Good heaven!” said the lady, turning pale as ashes, 

is the man slain 

“ No, madam,” replied Lilias, “ but slain he would 
have been, if there had not been ready help ; but may 
be, it is your ladyship’s pleasure that this young esquire 
shall poniard the servants, as well as switch and baton 
them.” 

“ Go to, minion,” said the lady, “ you are saucy — tell 
the master of the household to attend me instantly.” 

Lilias hastened to seek out Mr. Wingate, and hurry 
him to his lady’s presence, speaking as a word in season 
to him on the way, “ 1 have set the stone a-trowling, look 
that you do not let it stand still.” 

The steward, too prudential a person to commit him- 
self otherwise, answered by a sly look and a nod of in- 
telligence, and presently after stood in the presence of 
the Lady of Avenel, with a look of great respect for his 
lady, partly real, partly affected, and an air of great sa- 
gacity, which inferred no ordinary conceit of himself. 

“ How is this, Wingate,” said the lady, “ and what 
rule do you keep in the castle, that the domestics of Sir 
Halbert Glendinning draw the dagger on each other, as 
in a cavern of thieves and murderers ? — is the wounded 
man much hurt ? and what — what hath become of the 
unhappy boy ?” 

“ There is no one wounded as yet, madam,” replied 
he of the golden chain ; “ it passes my poor skill to say 
how many may be wounded before Pasche,* if some 


Easter 


THE ABBOT. 


40 


rule be not taken with this youth — not hut the youth is a 
fair youth,” he added, correcting himself, “ and able at 
his exercise ; but somewhat too ready with the ends of 
his fingers, the but of his riding-switch, and the point of 
his dagger.” 

“ And whose fault is that,” said the lady, “ but yours, 
who should have taught him better discipline, than to 
brawl or to draw his dagger 

“ If it please your ladyship so to impose the blame on 
me,” answered the steward, “ it is my part, doubtless, 
to bear it — only 1 submit to your consideration, that un- 
less I nailed his weapon to the scabbard, I could no more 
keep it still, than I could fix quicksilver, which defied 
even the skill of Raymond Lullius.” 

“ Tell me not of Raymond Lullius,” said the lady, 
losing patience, “ but send me the chaplain hither. You 
grow all of you too wise for me, during your lord’s long 
and repeated absences. I would to God his affairs would 
permit him to remain at home and rule his own household, 
for it })asses my wit and skill !” 

“ God forbid, my lady !” said the old domestic, “that 
you should sincerely think what you are now pleased to 
say : your old servants might well hope, that after so 
many years duty, you w’ould do their service more justice 
than to distrust their grey hairs, because they cannot rule 
the peevish humour of a green head, which the owner 
carries, it may be, a brace of inches higher than becomes 
him.” 

“ Leave me,” said the lady ; “ Sir Halbert’s return 
must now be expected daily, and he will look into these 
matters himself — leave me, I say, Wingate, without saying 
more of it. I know you are honest, and I believe the hoy 
is petulant ; and yet I think it is my favour which hath 
set all of you against him.” 

The steward bowed and retired, after having been si- 
lenced in a second attempt to explain the motives on 
which he acted. 

5 VOL. 1. 


60 


TliE ABBOO'. 


The chaplain arrived ; but neither from him did the 
lady receive much comfort. On the contrary, she found 
him disposed, in plain terms, to lay to the door of her 
indulgence all the disturbances which the fiery temper of 
Roland Graeme had already occasioned, or might here- 
after occasion, in the family. “ I would,” he said, hon- 
oured lady, that you had deigned to be ruled by me in 
the outset of this matter, sith it is easy to stem evil in the 
fountain, but hard to struggle against it in the stream. 
You, honoured madam, (a word which I do not use ac- 
cording to the vain forms of this world, but because I 
have ever loved and honoured you as an honourable and 
an elect lady,) — you, I say, madam, have been pleased, 
contrary to my poor but earnest counsel, to raise this boy 
from his station, into one approaching to your own.” 

“ What mean you, reverend sir said the lady ; I 
have made tliis youth a page — is their aught in my doing 
so that does not become my character and quality ?” 

“ I dispute not, madam,” said the pertinacious preach- 
er, “ your benevolent purpose in taking charge of this 
youth, or your title to give him this idle character of page, 
if such was your pleasure ; though what the education 
of a boy in the train of a female can tend to, save to en- 
graft foppery and effeminacy on conceit and arrogance, 
it passes my knowledge to discover. But I blame you 
more directly for having taken little care to guard liim 
against the perils of his condition, or to tame and humble 
a spirit naturally haughty, overbearing, and impatient. 
You have brought into your bower a lion’s cub ; delight- 
ed with the beauty of his fur, and the grace of his gam- 
bols, you have bound him with no fetters befitting the 
fierceness of his disposition. You have let him grow up 
as unawed as if he had been still a tenant of the forest, 
and now you are surprised, and call out for assistance, 
when he begins to ramp, rend, and tear, according to his 
proper nature.” 

“ Mr. Warden,” said the lady, considerably offended, 
“ you are my husband’s ancient friend, and 1 believe your 
love sincere to him and to his household. Yet let me 


THE ABBOT. 


51 


say, that when I asked you for counsel, I expected not 
this asperity of rebuke. If I have done wrong in loving 
this poor orphan lad more than others of his class, I scarce 
think the error merited such severe censure ; and if 
stricter discipline were required to keep his fiery temper 
in order, it ought, I think, to be considered, that I am a 
woman, and that if I have erred in this matter, it becomes 
a friend’s part rather to aid than to rebuke me. I would 
these evils were taken order with before my lord’s return. 
He loves not domestic discord or domestic brawls ; and 
I would not willingly that he thought such could arise 
from one whom I have favoured — What do you counsel 
me to do f” 

“ Dismiss this youth from your service, madam,” re- 
plied the preacher. 

“ You cannot bid me do so,” said the lady ; “ you 
cannot, as a Christian and a man of humanity, bid me 
turn away an unprotected creature, against whom my 
favour, my injudicious favour if you will, has reared up 
so many enemies.” 

“ It is not necessary you should altogether abandon 
him, though you dismiss him to another service, or to a 
calling better suiting his station and character,” said the 
preacher ; “ elsewhere he may be an useful and profit- 
able member of the commonweal — here he is but a make- 
bate, and a stumbling-block of offence. The youth has 
snatches of sense and of intelligence, though he lacks 
industry. I will myself give him letters commendatory 
to Olearius Schinderhausen, a learned professor at the fa- 
mous university of Leyden, where they lack an under-jani- 
tor — where, besides gratis instruction, if God give him the 
grace to seek it, he will enjoy five marks by the year, and the 
professor’s cast-off suit, which he disparts with biennially.” 

“ This will never do, good Mr. Warden,” said the 
lady, scarce able to suppress a smile ; “ we will think 
more at large upon this matter. In the meanwhile, I 
trust to your remonstrances with this wfild boy and with 
the family, for restraining these violent and unseemly jeal- 
ousies and bursts of passion 5 and I entreat you to press 


52 


THE ABBOT. 


on him and them their duty in this respect towards God, 
and towards their master.” 

“You shall be obeyed, madam,” said Warden. “On 
the next Thursday I exhort the family, and will, with 
God’s blessing, so wrestle with the demon of wrath and 
violence, which hath entered into my little flock, that 1 
trust to hound the wolf out of the fold, as if he were 
chased away with ban-dogs.” 

This was the part of the conference from which Mr. 
Warden derived the greatest pleasure. The pulpit was 
at that time the same powerful engine for affecting pop- 
ular feeling which the press has since become, and he 
had been no unsuccessful preacher, as we have already 
seen* It followed as a natural consequence, that he rath- 
er over-estimated the powers of his own oratory, and, 
like some of his brethren about the period, was glad of 
an opportunity to handle any matters of importance, 
whether public or private, the discussion of which could 
be dragged into his discourse. In that rude age the del- 
icacy was unknown which prescribed time and place to 
personal exhortations ; and as the court-preacher often 
addressed the King individually, and dictated to him the 
conduct he ought to observe in matters of state, so the no- 
bleman himself, or any of his retainers, were, in the chapel 
of the feudal castle, often incensed or appalled, as the 
case might be, by the discussion of their private faults in 
the evening exercise, and by spiritual censures directed 
against them, specifically, personally, and by name. 

The sermon, by means of which Henry Warden pro- 
posed to restore concord and good order to the Castle of 
Avenel, bore for text the well-known words, “ He 
who striketh with the sword shall perish by the sword,"*' 
and was a singular mixture of good sense and powerful 
oratory with pedantry and bad taste. He enlarged a 
good deal on the word striketh, which he assured his 
hearers comprehended blows given with the point as well 
as with the edge, and, more generally, shooting with 
hand-gun, cross-bow, or long-bow, thrusting with a lance, 
or doing anything whatever, by which death might be 


THE ABBOT. 


53 


occasioned to the adversary. In the same manner, he 
proved satisfactorily, that the word sword, comprehended 
all descriptions, whether back-sword or basket-hilt, cut- 
and-thrust or rapier, falchion or scymitar. “ But if,’^ 
he continued, with still greater animation, “ the text in- 
cludeth in its anathema those who strike with any of those 
weapons which man hath devised for the exercise of his 
open hostility, still more doth it comprehend such as from 
their form and size are devised rather for the gratification 
of privy malice by treachery, than for the destruction o 
an enemy prepared and standing upon his defence. 
Such” he proceeded, looking sternly at the place where the 
page was seated on a cushion at the feet of his mistress, 
and wearing in his crimson belt a gay dagger with a gilded 
hilt, — “ such, more especially, I hold to be those imple- 
ments of death, wliich, in our modern and fantastic times, 
are worn not only by thieves and cut-throats, to whom they 
most properly belong, but even by those who attend upon 
women, and wait in the chambers of honourable ladies. 
Yes, my friends, — every species of this unhappy weapon, 
framed for all evil and for no good, is comprehended under 
this deadly denunciation, whether it be a stilet, which we 
have borrowed from the treacherous Italian, or a dirk, 
which is borne by the savage Highlandnaan, or a whinger, 
which is carried by our own Border-thieves and cut- 
throats, or a dudgeon-dagger, all are alike engines invented 
by the devil himself, for ready implements of deadly wrath, 
sudden to execute and difficult to be parried. Even the 
coramo■^ sword-and-buckler brawler despises the use of 
such a tiv ’cherous and malignant instrument, which is 
therefore fit be used, not by men or soldiers, but by 
those who, trainea under female discipline, become them- 
selves effeminate hermaphrodites, having female spite and 
female cowardice added to the infirmities and evil pas- 
sions of their masculine nature.” 

The effect which this oration produced upon the assem- 
bled congregation of Avenel cannot very easily be de- 
scribed. The lady seemed at once embarrassed and 
5 * VOL. I. 


64 


THE ABBOT. 


offended ; the menials could hardly contain, under an affec- 
tation of deep attention, the joy with which they heard the 
chaplain launch his thunders at the head of the unpopular 
favourite, and the weapon which they considered as a 
badge of affectation and finery. Mrs. Lilias crested and 
drew up her head with all the deep-felt pride of gratified 
resentment ; while the steward, observing a strict neutral- 
ity of aspect, fixed his eyes upon an old scutcheon on the 
opposite side of the wall, which he seemed to examine 
with the utmost accuracy, more willing, perhaps, to incur 
the censure of being inattentive to the sermon, than that 
of seeming to listen with marked approbation to what ap- 
peared so distasteful to his mistress. 

The unfortunate subject of the harangue, whom nature 
had endowed with passions which had hitherto found no 
effectual restraint, could not disguise the resentment which 
he felt at being thus directly held up to the scorn, as well 
as the censure, of the assembled inhabitants of the little 
world in which he lived. His brow grew red, his lip 
grew pale, he set his teeth, he clenched his hand, and 
then with mechanical readiness grasped the weapon of 
which the clergyman had given so hideous a character ; 
and at length, as the preacher heightened the colouritig 
of his invective, he felt his rage become so ungovernable, 
that, fearful of being hurried into some deed of desper- 
ate violence, he rose up, traversed the chapel with hasty 
steps, and left the congregation. 

The preacher was surprised into a sudden pause, while 
the fiery youth shot across him like a flash of lightning, re- 
garding him as he passed, as if he had wished to dart from 
his eyes the same power of blighting and of consuming 
But no sooner had he crossed the chapel, and shut with 
violence behind him the door of the vaulted entrance by 
which it communicated with the Castle, than the impro- 
priety of his conduct supplied Warden with one of those 
happier subjects for eloquence, of which he knew how 
to take advantage for making a suitable impression on his 
hearers. He paused for an instant, and then pronounced 
in a slow and solemn voice, the deep anathema : “ He 
hath gone out from us because he was not of us — the 


THE ABBOT. 55 

sick man hath been offended at the wholesome bitter of 
the medicine — the wounded patient hath flinched from 
the friendly knife of the surgeon — the sheep hath fled 
from the sheepfold and delivered himself to the wolf, be- 
cause he could not assume the quiet and humble conduct 
demanded of us by the great Sliepherd. — Ah ! my breth- 
ren, beware of wrath — beware of pride — beware of the 
deadly and destroying sin which so often shows itself to 
ur frail eyes in the garments of light ! What is our 
earthly honour ? Pride, and pride only — What our earth- 
ly gifts and graces ? Pride and vanity. — Voyagers speak 
of Indian men who deck themselves with shells, and 
anoint themselves with pigments, and boast of their attire 
as we do of our miserable carnal advantages — Pride could 
draw down the morning-star from Heaven even to the 
verge of the pit — Pride and self-opinion kindled the 
flaming sword which waves us off from Paradise — Pride 
made Adam mortal, and a weary wanderer on the face of 
the earth which he had else been at this day the immortal 
lord of — Pride brought amongst us sin, and doubles every 
sin it has brought. It is the outpost which the devil and the 
flesh most stubbornly maintain against the assaults of grace ; 
and until it be subdued, and its barriers levelled with the 
very earth, there is more hope of a fool than of the sin- 
ner. Rend, then, from your bosoms this accursed shoot 
of the fatal apple ; tear it up by the roots, though it be 
twisted with the cords of your life. Profit by the exam- 
ple of the miserable sinner that has passed from us, and 
embrace the means of grace while it is called to-day — 
gre your conscience is seared as with a fire-brand, and 
your ears deafened like those of the adder, and your heart 
hardened like the nether mill-stone. Up, then, and be 
doing — wrestle and overcome ; resist, and the enemy 
shall flee from you — Watch and pray, lest ye fall into 
temptation, and let the stumbling of others be your warn- 
ing and your example. Above all, rely not on yourselves, 
for such self confidence is even the worst symptom of 
the disorder itself. The Pharisee perhaps deemed him- 
self humble while he stooped in the Temple, and thank- 


56 


THE ABBOT. 


ed God that he was not as other men, and even as the 
publican. But while his knees touched the marble pave- 
ment, his head was as high as the topmost pinnacle of 
the Temple. Do not, therefore, deceive yourselves, and 
offer false coin, where the purest you can present is but 
as dross — think not that such will pass the assay of Om- 
nipotent Wisdom. Yet shrink not from the task, because, 
as is my bounden duly, I do not disguise from you its 
difficulties. Self-searching can do much — Meditation 
can do much — Grace can do all.” 

And he concluded with a touching and animating ex- 
hortation to his hearers to seek divine grace, which is 
perfected in human weakness. 

The audience did not listen to this address without be- 
ing considerably affected ; though it might be doubted 
whether the feelings of triumph, excited by the dis- 
graceful retreat of the favourite page, did not greatly 
qualify in the minds of many the exhortations of the 
preacher to charity and to humility. And, in fact, the 
expression of their countenances much resembled the 
satisfied, triumphant air of a set of children, who, liaving 
just seen a companion punished for a fault in which they 
had no share, con their task with double glee, both be- 
cause they themselves are out of the scrape, and because 
the culprit is in it. 

With very different feelings did the Lady of Avenel 
seek her own apartment. She felt angry at Warden hav- 
ing made a domestic matter, in which she took a personal 
interest, the subject of such public discussion. But this 
she knew the good man claimed as a branch of his Chris- 
tian liberty as a preacher, and also that it was vindicated 
by the universal custom of his brethren. But the self- 
willed conduct of her protege afforded her yet deeper 
concern. That he had broken through, in so remarkable a 
degree, not only the respect due to her presence, but that 
which was paid to religious admonition in those days with 
such peculiar reverence, argued a spirit as untameable 
as his enemies had represented him to possess. And 
vet, so far as he had been under her own eye, she had 


THE ABBOT. 


67 


seen no more of that fiery spirit than appeared to her to 
become his years and his vivacity. This opinion might 
be founded in some degree on partiality ; in some de- 
gree, too, it might be owing to the kindness and indul- 
gence which she had always extended to him ; but still 
she thought it impossible that she could be totally mistak- 
en in the estimate she had formed of his character. 
The extreme of violence is scarce consistent with a course 
of continued hypocrisy, (although Lilias charitably hint- 
ed, that in some instances they were happily united,) and 
therefore she could not exactly trust the report of others 
against her own experience and observation. The 
thoughts of this orphan boy clung to her heartstrings 
with a fondness for which she herself was unable to ac- 
count. He had seemed to have been sent to her by Heav- 
en, to fill up those intervals of languor and vacuity which 
deprived her of much enjoyment. Perhaps he was not 
less dear to her, because she well saw that he was a fa- 
vourite with no one else, and because she felt, that to give 
him up was to afford the judgment of her husband and 
others a triumph over her own ; a circumstance not quite 
indifferent to the best of spouses of either sex. 

In short, the Lady of Avenel formed the internal reso- 
lution, that she would not desert her page while her page 
could be rationally protected ; and, with the view of as- 
certaining how far this might be done, she caused him to 
be summoned to her presence. 


68 


THE ABBOT. 


CHAPTER V. 

In the wild storm, 

The seaman hews his mast down, and the merchant 
Heaves to the billows wares he once deem’d precious 5 
So prince and peer, ’mid popular contentions, 

Cast off their favourites. 

Old Play. 

It was some time ere Roland Graeme appeared. The 
messenger (his old friend Lilias) had at first attempted 
to open the door of his little apartment with the charita- 
ble purpose, doubtless, of enjoying the confusion and 
marking the demeanour of the culprit. But an oblong 
bit of iron, yclept a bolt, was passed across the door on 
the inside, and prevented her benign intentions. Lilias 
knocked, and called at intervals, “ Roland — Roland 
Grasme — Master Roland Graeme, (an emphasis on the 
word Master,) will you be pleased to undo the door ? — 
What ails you ? — are you at your prayers in private, to 
complete the devotion which you left unfinished in pub- 
lic ? — Surely we must have a screened seat for you in 
the chapel, that your gentility may be free from the eyes 
of common folks !” Still no whisper was heard in reply. 
“ Well, Master Roland,” said the waiting-maid, “ 1 must 
tell my mistress, that if she would have an' answer, she 
must either come herself, or send those on errand to you 
who can beat the door down.” 

“ What says your lady ?” inquired the page from 
within. 

“ Marry, open the door, and you shall hear,” answered 
the waiting-maid. “ I trow it becomes my lady’s mes- 
sage to be listened to face to face ; and I will not, for 
your idle pleasure, whistle it through a key-hole.” 

“ Your mistress’s name,” said the page, opening the 
door, “ is too fair a cover for your impertinence — Wliat 
gays my lady ?” 


THE ABBOT. 


60 


‘‘ That you will be pleased to come to her directly, in 
the withdrawing-room,” answered Lilias. “ 1 presume 
she has some directions for you concerning the forms to 
be observed in leaving chapel in future.” 

“ Say to my lady, that I will directly wait on her,” 
said the page ; and, returning into his own apartment, 
he once more locked the door in the face of the waitins:- 
maid. 

“ Rare courtesy !” muttered Lilias ; and, returning 
to her mistress, acquainted her that Roland Giieme 
would wait on her when it suited his convenience. 

“ What ! is that his phrase, or your own addition, 
Lilias f” said the lady, coolly. 

“ Nay, madam,” replied the attendant, not directly 
answering the question, ‘‘ he looked as if he could have 
said much more impertinent things than that, if I had 
been willing to hear them. — But here he comes to an- 
swer for himself.” 

Roland Grseme entered the apartment with a loftier 
mien, and sojnewhat a higher colour,than his wont ; there 
was embarrassment in his manner, but it was neither that 
of fear nor of penitence. 

“ Young man,” said the lady, “ what trow you, am I 
to think of your conduct this day ?” 

“ If it has offended you, madam, I am deeply griev- 
ed,” replied the youth. 

“ To have offended me alone,” said the lady, 
“ were but little — You have been guilty of conduct, which 
will highly offend your master — of violence to your fel- 
lo^v-servants, and of disrespect to God himself, in the 
person of his ambassador.” 

“ Permit me again to reply,” said the page, “ that if I 
have offended my only mistress, friend, and benefactress, 
it includes the sum of my guilt, and deserves the sum 
of my penitence — Sir Halbert Glendinning calls me not 
servant, nor do 1 call him master — he is not entitled to 
blame me for chastising an insolent groom — nor do I fear 
the wrath of heaven for treating with scorn the unauthor- 
ized interference of a meddling preacher.” 


60 


THE ABBOT. 


The Lady of Avenel had before this, seen symptoms 
in her favourite, of boyish petulance, and of impatience 
of censure or reproof. But his present demeanour was 
of a graver and more determined character, and she was 
for a moment at a loss how she should treat the youth, 
who seemed to have at once assumed the character not 
only of a man, but of a bold and determined one. She 
paused an instant, and then assuming the dignity which 
was natural to her, she said, “ Is it to me, Roland, that 
you hold this language ? Is it for the purpose of making 
me repent the favour I have shown you, that you declare 
yourself independent, both of an earthly and a Heavenly 
master ? Have you forgotten what you were, and to 
what the loss of my protection would speedily again re- 
duce you ?” 

“ Lady,” said the page, “ I have forgot nothing ; I 
remember but too much. I know, that but for you, 1 
should have perished in yon blue waves,” pointing as he 
spoke to the lake which was seen through the window, 
agitated by the western wind. “ Your goodness has gone 
farther, madam — you have protected me against the 
malice of others, and against my own folly. You are 
free, if you are willing, to abandon the orphan you have 
reared. You have left nothing undone by him, and he 
complains of nothing. And yet, lady, do not think 1 have 
been ungrateful — I have endured something on my part, 
which I would have borne for the sake of no one but my 
benefactress.” 

“ For my sake !” said the lady ; “ and what is it that 
I can have subjected you to endure, which can be re- 
membered with other feelings than those of thanks and 
gratitude ?” 

“ You are too just, madam, to require me to be thank- 
ful for the cold neglect with which your husband has uni- 
formly treated me — neglect not unmingled with fixed 
aversion. You are too just madam, to require me to be 
grateful for the constant and unceasing marks of scorn and 
malevolence with which I have been treated by others 
or for such a homily as that with which your reverena 


THE ABBOT. 


61 


chaplain has, at my expense, this very day regaled the 
assembled household.” 

“ Heard mortal ears the like of this !” said the wait- 
ing-maid, with her hands expanded, and her eyes turned 
up to heaven ; “ he speaks as if he were son of an earl, 
or of a belted knight the least penny!” 

The page glanced on her a look of supreme contempt, 
but vouchsafed no other answer. His mistress, who be- 
gan to feel herself seriously offended, and yet sorry for 
the youth’s folly, took up the same tone. 

“ Indeed, Roland, you forget yourself so strangely,” 
said she, “ that you will tempt me to take serious meas- 
ures to lower you in your own opinion, by reducing you 
to your proper station in society.” 

“ And that,” added Lilias, “ would be best done by 
turning him out the same beggar’s brat that your lady- 
ship took him in.” 

“ Lilias speaks too rudely,” continued the lady, “ but 
she has spoken the truth, young man ; nor do I think I 
ought to spare that pride which hath so completely turned 
your head. You have been tricked up with fine gar- 
ments, and treated like the son of a gentleman, until you 
have forgot the fountain of your churlish blood.” 

“ Craving your pardon, most honourable madam, Lilias 
hath not spoken truth, nor does your ladyship know aught 
of my descent, which should entitle you to treat it with 
such decided scorn. I am no beggar’s brat — my grand- 
mother begged from no one, here nor elsewhere — she 
would have perished sooner on the bare moor. We were 
harried out and driven from our home — a chance which 
has happed elsewhere, and to others. Avenel Castle, 
with its lake and its towers, was not at all times able to 
protect its inhabitants from want and desolation.” 

“ Hear but his assurance !” said Lilias, “ he upbraids 
my lady with the distresses of her family !” 

‘‘ It had indeed been a theme more gratefully spared,” 
said the lady, affected nevertheless with the allusion. 

6 VOL. I. 


62 


THE ABBOT. 


“ It was necessary, madam, for riiy vindication,” said 
the page, “ or I had not even hinted at a word that might 
give you pain. But believe, honoured lady, I am of no 
churl’s blood. My proper descent 1 know not ; but my 
only relation has said, and my heart has echoed it back 
and attested the truth, that I am sprung of gentle blood, 
and deserve gentle usage.” 

“ And upon an assurance so vague as this,” said the 
lady, “ do you propose to expect all the regard, all the 
privileges, befitting high rank and distinguished birth, 
and become a contender for concessions which are only 
due to the noble ? Go to, sir, know yourself, or the mas- 
ter of the household shall make you know you are liable 
to the scourge as a malapert boy. You have tasted too 
little the discipline fit for your age and station.” 

“ The master of the household shall taste of my dag- 
ger, ere I taste of his discipline,” said the page, giving 
way to his restrained passion. “ Lady, I have been too 
long the vassal of a pantoufle, and the slave of a silver 
whistle. You must henceforth find some other to answer 
your call ; and let him be of birth and spirit mean enough 
to brook the scorn of your menials, and to call a church 
vassal his master.” 

“ I have deserved this insult,” said the lady, colour- 
ing deeply, “ for so long enduring and fostering your 
petulance. Begone, sir. Leave this castle to-night — I 
.will send you the means of subsistence till you find 
some honest mode of support, though I fear your imag- 
inary grandeur will be above all others, save those of 
rapine and violence. Begone, sir, and see my face no 
more.” 

The page threw himself at her feet in an agony of sor- 
row. “ My dear and honoured mistress — ” he said, but 
was unable to bring out another syllable. 

“ Arise, sir,” said the lady, “ and let go my mantle — 
hypocrisy is a poor cloak for ingratitude.” 

“ I am incapable of either, madam,” said the page, 
springing up with the hasty start of passion which belong- 
ed to his rapid and impetuous temper. “ Think not I 


THE ABBOT. 


63 


meant to implore permission to reside here ; it has been 
long my determination to leave Avenel, and I will never 
forgive myself for having permitted you to say the word 
begone, ere I said, “ I leave you.” I did but kneel to 
ask your forgiveness for an ill-considered word used in 
the height of displeasure, but which ill became my mouth, 
as addressed to you. Other grace 1 asked not — you 
have done much for me — but I repeat, that you better 
know what you yourself have done, than what 1 have 
suffered.” 

“ Roland,” said the lady, somewhat appeased and re- 
lenting towards her favourite, “ you had me to appeal to 
when you were aggrieved. You were neither called 
upon to suffer wrong, nor entitled to resent it, when you 
were under my protection.” 

“ And what,” said the youth, if I sustained wrong 
from those you loved and favoured, was I to disturb your 
peace with idle tale-bearings and eternal complaints ^ 
No, madam ; I have borne my own burden in silence, 
and without disturbing you with murmurs ; and the re- 
spect wdiich you accuse me of wanting, furnishes the only 
reason why 1 have neither appealed to you, nor taken 
vengeance at my own hand in a manner far more effec- 
tual. It is well, however, that we part. I was not born 
to be a stipendiary, favoured by his mistress, until jruined 
by the calumnies of others. May Heaven multiply its 
choicest blessings on your honoured head ; and, for your 
sake, upon all that are dear to you !” 

He was about to leave the apartment, when the lady 
called on him to return. He stood still, while she thus 
addressed him : “ It was not my intention, nor would it 
be just, even in the height of my displeasure, to dismiss 
you without the means of support ; take this purse of 
gold.” 

“ Forgive me, lady,” said the boy, “ and let me go 
hence with the consciousness that I have not been degrad- 
ed to the point of accepting alms. If my poor services 
can be placed against the expense of my apparel and my 
maintenance, I only remain debtor to you for my life, 


64 


THE ABBOT. 


and that alone is a debt which I can never repay ; put 
up then that purse, and only say, instead, that you do not 
part from me in anger.” 

“ No, not in anger,” said the lady, “ in sorrow rather 
for your wilfulness ; but take the gold, you cannot but 
need it.” 

“ May God evermore bless you for the kind tone and 
the kind word ! but the gold 1 cannot take. I am able 
of body, and do not lack friends so wholly as you may 
think ; for the time may come that I may yet show my- 
self more thankful than by mere words.” He threw 
himself on his knees, kissed the hand which she did not 
withdraw, and then hastily left the apartment. 

Lilias, for a moment or two, kept her eye fixed on her 
mistress, who looked so unusually pale, that she seemed 
about to faint ; but the lady instantly recovered herself, 
and declining the assistance which her attendant offered 
her, walked to her own apartment. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Thou hast each secret of the household, Francis. 

I dare be sworn thou hast been in the buttery 
Steeping thy curious humour in fat ale, 

And in the butler’s tattle — ay, or chatting 
With the glib waiting-woman o’er her comfits — 

These bear the key to each domestic mystery. 

Old Play. 

Upon the morrow succeeding the scene we have de- 
scribed, the disgraced favourite left the Castle ; and at 
breakfast-time the cautious old steward and Mrs. Lilias 
sat in the apartment of the latter personage, holding grave 
converse on the important event of the day, sweetened 
by a small treat of comfits, to which the providence 
of Mr. Wingate had added a little flask of racy canary. 


THE ABBOT. 


65 


“ He is gone at last,” said the abigail, sipping her 
glass ; “ and here is to his good journey.” 

“ Amen,” answered the steward, gravely ; “ I wish 
the poor deserted lad no ill.” 

“ And he is gone like a wild-duck, as he came,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Lilias ; “ no lowering of drawbridges, or 
pacing along causeways for him. My master has pushed 
off in the boat which they call the little Herod, (more 
shame to them for giving the name of a Christian to wood 
and iron,) and has rowed himself by himself to the fur- 
ther side of the loch, and off and away with himself, and 
left all his finery strewed about his room. I wonder who 
is to clean his trumpery out after him — though the things 
are worth lifting, too.” 

“ Doubtless, Mrs. Lilias,” answered the master of the 
household ; “ in the which case, I am free to think, they 
will not long cumber the floor.” 

“ And now tell me, Mr. Wingate,” continued the dam- 
sel, “ do not the very cockles of your heart rejoice at 
the house being rid of this upstart whelp, that flung us 
all into shadow .^” 

“ Why, Mrs. Lilias,” replied Wingate, “ as to rejoic- 
ing — those who have lived as long in great families as 
has been my lot, will be in no hurry to rejoice at any- 
thing. And for Roland Graeme; though he may be a 
good riddance in the main, yet what says the very sooth 
proverb, ‘ Seldom comes a better.’ ” 

“ Seldom comes a better, indeed !” echoed Mrs. Lil- 
ias. “ I say, never can come a worse, or one half so bad. 
He might have been the ruin of our poor dear mistress, 
(here she used her kerchief,) body and soul, and estate 
too ; for she spent more coin on his apparel than on any 
four servants about the house.” 

“ Mrs. Lilias,” said the sage steward, “ I do opine that 
our mistress requireth not this pity at our hands, being in 
all respects competent to take care of her own body, 
soul, and estate into the bargain.” 

6* VOL. I. 


6C 


THE ABBOT. 


“ You would not mayhap have said so,” answered the 
waiting-woman, “ had you seen how like Lot’s wife she 
looked when young master took his leave. My mistress 
is a good lady, and a virtuous, and a well-doing lady, 
and a well-spoken of — but 1 would not Sir Halbert had 
seen her last evening, for two and a plack.” 

“ Oh, foy ! foy ! foy !” reiterated the steward ; “ ser- 
vants should hear and see, and say nothing. Besides 
that, my lady is utterly devoted to Sir Halbert, as well 
she may, being, as he is, the most renowned knight in 
these parts.” 

“Well, well,” said the abigail, “ I mean no more 
harm ; but they that seek least renown abroad, are most 
apt to find quiet at home, that’s all ; and my lady’s lone- 
some situation is to be considered, that made her fain 
to take up with the first beggar’s brat that a dog brought 
her out of the loch.” 

“And, therefore,” said the steward, “I say, rejoice 
not too much, or too hastily, Mrs. Lilias ; for if your lady 
wished a favourite to pass away the time, depend upon 
it, the time will not pass lighter now that he is gone. So 
she will have another favourite to choose for herself, and 
be assured, if she washes such a toy, she will not lack one.” 

“And where should she choose one, but among her 
own tried and faithful servants,” said Mrs. Lilias, “ w-ho 
have broken her bread, and drank her drink for so many 
years ? 1 have known many a lady as high as she, that 

never thought either of a friend or favourite beyond their 
own waiting-woman — always having a proper respect, at 
the same time, for their old and faithful master of the 
household, Mr. Wingate.” 

“Truly, Mrs. Lilias,” replied the stew^ard, “Ido 
partly see the mark at which you shoot, but 1 doubt your 
bolt will fall short. Matters being with our lady as it 
likes you to suppose, it w'ill neither be your crimped 
pinners, Mrs. Lilias, (speaking of them with due respect,) 
nor my silver hair, or golden chain, that will fill up the 
void which Roland Graeme must needs leave in our lady’s 
leisure. There will be a learned young divine with some 


THE ABBOT. 


67 


new doctrine — a learned leech with some new drug 

a bold cavalier, who will not be refused the favour of 
wearing her colours at a running at the ring — a cunning 
harper that could harp the heart out of woman’s breast, 
as they say Signior David Dizzio did to our poor Queen ^ 
these are the sort of folk who supply the loss of a well- 
favoured favourite, and not an old steward, or a middle- 
aged waiting-woman.” 

“ Well,” replied Lilias, “you have experience, Master 
Wingate, and truly 1 would my master would leave off 
his pricking hither and thither, and look better after the 
affairs of his household. There will be a papistrie 
among us next, for what should I see among master’s 
clothes but a string of gold beads I promise you, aves 
and credos both ! — I seized on them like a falcon.” 

“ I doubt it not, I doubt it not,” said the steward, sa- 
gaciously nodding his head ; “ 1 have often noticed that 
the boy had strange observances which savoured of po- 
pery, and that he was very jealous to conceal them. But 
you will find the Catholic under the Presbyterian cloak 
as often as the knave under the friar’s hood — what then ^ 
we are all mortal.— Right proper beads they are,” he 
added, looking attentively at them, “ and may weigh four 
ounces of fine gold.” 

“ And I will have them melted down presently, she 
said, “ before they be the misguiding of some poor blind- 
ed soul.” 

“Very cautious, indeed, Mrs. Lilias,” said the stew- 
ard, nodding his head in assent. 

“ I will have them made,” said Mrs. Lilias, “ into a 
pair of shoe-buckles ; 1 would not wear the Pope’s trin- 
kets, or whatever has once borne the shape of them, one 
inch above my instep, were they diamonds instead of 
gold — But this is what has come of Father Ambrose 
coming about tbe Castle, as demure as a cat that is about 
to steal cream.” 

“Father Ambrose is our master’s brother,” said th€ 
steward, gravely. 


68 


THE ABBOT. 


“Very true, Master Wingate,” replied the dame; 
“ but is that a good reason why he should pervert the 
king’s liege subjects to papistrie ?” 

“ Heaven forbid, Mrs. Lilias,” answered the senten- 
tious major-domo ; “ but yet there are worse folk than 
the papists.” 

“ 1 wonder where they are to be found,” said the 
waiting-woman, with some asperity ; “ but I believe. 
Master Wingate, if one were to speak to you about the 
devil himself, you would say there were worse people 
than Satan.” 

“ Assuredly 1 might say so,” replied the steward, 
“ supposing that I saw Satan standing at my elbow.” 

The waiting-woman started, and having exclaimed 
“ God bless us !” added, “ I wonder, Mr. Wingate, you 
can take pleasure in frightening one thus.” 

“ Nay, Mrs. Lilias, I had no, such purpose,” was the 
reply ; “ but look you here — the papists are put down for 
the present, but who knows how long this word present 
will last ? There are two great Popish earls in the North 
of England, that abominate the very word reformation ; 
I mean the Northumberland and Westmoreland Earls, 
men of power enough to shake any throne in Christendom. 
Then, though our Scottish king be, God bless him, a true 
Protestant, yet he is but a boy ; and here is his mother that 
was our queen — I trust there is no harm to say God bless 
her too — and she is a Catholic ; and many begin to think 
she has had but hard measure, such as the Hamiltons 
in the west, and some of our Border clans here, and the 
Gordons in the north, who are all wishing to see a new 
world ; and if such a new world should chance to come 
up, it is like that the Queen will take back her own 
crown, and that the mass and the cross will come up, 
and then down go pulpits, Geneva gowns, and black 
silk skull-caps.” 

“ And have you, Mr. Jasper Wingate, who have heard 
the word, and listened unto pure and precious Mr. 
Henry Warden, have you, 1 say, the patience to speak, 
or but to think, of popery coming down on us like a 


THE ABBOT. 


69 


Storm, or of the woman Mary again making the royal 
seat of Scotland a throne of abomination No marvel 
chat you are so civil to the cowled monk, Father Am- 
brose, when he comes hither with his downcast eyes 
that he never raises to rny lady’s face, and with his low 
sweet-toned voice, and his benedicites, and his benisons ; 
and wiio so ready to take them kindly as Mr. Wingate f” 

“ Mrs. Lilias,” replied the butler, with an air which 
was intended to close the debate, “ there are reasons 
for all things. If I received Father Ambrose debonairly, 
and suffered him to steal a word now and then with this 
same Roland Graeme, it was not that I cared a brass 
bodle for his benison or malison either, but only be- 
cause I respected my master’s blood. And who can 
answer, if Mary come in again, whether he may not be 
as stout a tree to lean to as ever his brother hath proved , 
to us For down goes the Earl of Murray when the 
Queen comes by her own again ; and good is his luck 
if he can keep the head on his own shoulders. And 
down goes our Knight, with the Earl his patron ; and 
who so like to mount into his empty saddle as this same 
Father Ambrose? The Pope of Rome can soon dis- 
pense with his vows, and then we should have Sir Ed- 
ward the soldier, instead of Ambrose the priest.” 

Anger and astonishment kept Mrs. Lilias silent, 
while her old friend, in his self-complacent manner, was 
making known to her his political speculations. At length 
her resentment found utterance in words of great ire and 
scorn. “ What, Master Wingate ! have you eaten my 
mistress’s bread, to say nothing of my master^s, so many 
years, that you could live to think of her being dispos- 
sessed of her own Castle of Avenel, by a wretched monk 
who is not a drop’s blood to her in the way of relation ? 

I, that am but a woman, would try first whether my rock 
or his cowl were the better metal. Shame on you, 
Master Wingate ! If I had not held you as so old an ac- 
quaintance, this should have gone to my lady’s ears, 
though I had been called pick-tbank and tale-pyet for 


70 


THE ABBOT. 


my pains, as when I told of Roland Grsme shooting the 
wild swan.” 

Master Wingate was somewhat dismayed at perceiv- 
ing that the detail which he had given of his far-sighted 
political views had produced on his hearer rather suspi- 
cion of his fidelity than admiration of his wisdom, and 
endeavoured, as hastily as possible, to apologize and to 
explain, although internally extremely offended at the 
unreasonable view, as he deemed it, which it had pleas- 
ed Mistress Lilias Bradbourne to take of his expressions ; 
and mentally convinced that her disapprobation of bis 
sentiments arose solely out of the consideration, that 
though Father Ambrose, supposing him to become the 
master of tbe Castle, would certainly require the services 
of a steward, yet those of a waiting-woman would, in 
the supposed circumstances, be altogether superfluous. 

After his explanation had been received as explana- 
tions usually are, the two friends separated ; Lilias to 
attend the silver whistle which called her to her mis- 
tress’s chamber, and the sapient major-domo to the du- 
ties of his own department. They parted with less than 
their usual degree of reverence and regard ; for the 
steward felt that his worldly wisdom was rebuked by the 
more disinterested attachment of the waiting-woman, 
and Mistress Lilias Bradbourne was compelled to con- 
sider her old friend as something little better thana iiuie- 
server. 


THE ABBOT. 


71 


CHAPTER VII. 

When I hae a saxpenre under my thumb, 

Then I get credit in ilka town ; 

But when I am poor, they bid me gae by — 

O poverty parts good company ! 

Old Song. 

While the departure of the page afforded subject for 
the conversation which we have detailed in our last 
chapter, the late favourite was far advanced on his solitary 
journey, without well knowing what was its object, or what 
was likely to be its end. He had rowed the skiff in which 
he left the Castle, to the side of the lake most distant 
from the village, with the desire of escaping from the 
notice of the inhabitants. His pride whispered, that he 
would be, in his discarded state, only the subject of their 
wonder and compassion ; and his generosity told him, 
that any mark of sympathy which his situation should 
excite, might be unfavourably reported at the Castle. 
A trifling incident convinced him he had little to fear for 
his friends on the latter score. He was met by a young 
man some years older than himself, who had on former 
occasions been but too happy to be permitted to share 
in his sports in the subordinate character of his assistant. 
Ralph Fisher approached to greet him with all the alac- 
rity of an humble friend. 

“ What, master Roland, abroad on this side, and with- 
out either haw4 or hound 

“ Hawk or hound,” said Roland, “ I will never per- 
haps hollo to again. I have been dismissed — that is, 
I have left the Castle.” 

• Ralph was surprised. What! you are to pass into 
the Knight’s service, and take the black jack and the 
lance 

“ Indeed,” replied Roland Graeme, “I am not — I ain 
now leaving the service of Avenel for ever.” 


72 


THE ABBOT. 


“ And whither are you going, then ?’* said the young 
peasant. 

“Nay, that is a question which it craves time to an- 
swer — 1 have that matter to determine yet,” replied the 
disgraced favourite. 

“ Nay, nay,” said Ralph, “ 1 warrant you it is the 
same to you which way you go — my lady would not dis- 
miss you till she had put some lining into the pouches of 
your doublet.” 

“ Sordid slave !” said Roland Graeme, “ dost thou 
think I would have accepted a boon from one who was 
giving me over a prey to detraction and to ruin, at the 
instigation of a canting priest and a meddling serving- 
woman ? The bread that 1 had bought with such an 
alms would have choked me at the first mouthful.” 

Ralph looked at his quondam friend with an air of 
wonder not unmixed with contempt. “ Well,” he said 
at length, “ no occasion for passion — each man knows 
his own stomach best — but, were 1 on a black moor at 
this time of day, not knowing whither 1 was going, 1 
should be glad to have a broad piece or two in my pouch, 
come by them as I could. — But perhaps you will go with 
me to my father’s — that is, for a night, for to-morrow 
we expect my uncle' Menelaus and all his folk ; but as I 
said, for one night ” 

The cold-blooded limitation of the offered shelter to 
one night only, and that tendered most unwillingly, of- 
fended the pride of the discarded favourite. 

“ 1 would rather sleep on the fresh heather, as I have 
done many a night on less occasion,” said Roland Grasme, 
“ than in the smoky garret of your father, that smells 
of peat-smoke and usquebaugh like a Highlander’s plaid.” 

“You may choose, my master, if you are so nice,” 
replied Ralph Fisher, “ you may be glad to smell a peat- 
fire, and usquebaugh too, if you journey long in the fash- 
ion you propose. You might have said God-a-rnercy 
for your proffer though — it is not every one will put 
themselves in the way of ill-will by harbouring a discard- 
ed serving-man.” 


THE ABBOT. 


73 


“ Ralph,” said Roland Graeme, “ I would pray you 
to remember that I have switched you before now, and 
this is the same riding-wand which you have tasted.” 

Ralph, who was a thickset clownish figure, arrived at 
his full strength, and conscious of the most complete per- 
sonal superiority, laughed contemptuously at the threats 
of the slight-made stripling. 

“It may be the same wand,” he said, “but not the 
same hand ; and that is as good rhyme as if it were in a 
ballad. Look you, my lady’s page that was, when your 
switch was up, it was no fear of you, but of your betters, 
that kept mine down — and I wot not what hinders me 
from clearing old scores with this hazel rung, and show- 
ing you it was your lady’s livery-coat which I spared, 
and not your flesh and blood, Master Rqland.” 

In the midst of his rage Roland Gragme was just wise 
enough to ^e, that by continuing this altercation, he 
would subject himself to very rude treatment from the 
boor, who was so much older and stronger than himself; 
and while his antagonist, with a sort of jeering laugh of 
defiance, seemed, to provoke the contest, he felt the full 
bitterness of his own degraded condition, and burst into 
a passion of tears, which he in vain endeavoured to con- 
ceal with both his hands. 

Even the rough churl was moved with the distress of 
his quondam companion. 

“ Nay, Master Roland,” he said, “ I did but as ’twere 
jest with thee — I would not harm thee, man, were it but 
for old acquaintance sake. But ever look to a man’s 
inches ere you talk of switching — why, thine arm, man, 
is but like a spindle compared to mine. But hark, I 
hear old Adam Woodcock hollowing to his hawk — 
Come along, man, we will have a merry afternoon, and 
go jollily to my father’s, in spite of the peat-smoke and 
usquebaugh to boot. Maybe we may put you into some 
honest way of winning your bread, though it’s hard to 
come by in these broken times.” 

7 VOL. I. 


74 ■ 


THE ABBOT. 


The unfortunate page made no answer, nor did he 
withdraw his hands from his face, and Fisher continued 
in what he imagined a suitable tone of comfort. 

“ Why, man, when you were my lady’s minion, men 
held you proud, and some thought you a papist, and I 
wot not what ; and so, now that you have no one to bear 
you out, you must be companionable and hearty, and 
wait on the minister’s examinations, and put these things 
out of folk’s head ; and if he says you are in fault, you 
must jouk your head to the stream ; and if a gentleman, 
or a gentleman’s gentleman, gives you a rough word, or 
a light blow, you must only say, thank you for dusting 
my doublet, or the like, as 1 have done by you. — But 
hark to Woodcock’s whistle again. Come, and 1 will 
teach you all the trick on’t as we go on.” 

“I thank you,” said Roland Grasme, endeavouring 
to assume an air of indifference and of superiority ; “ but 
I have another path 'before me, and were it otherwise I 
could not tread in yours.” 

“Very true. Master Roland,” replied the clown; 
“ and every man knows his own matters best, and so I 
will not keep you from the path, as you say. Give us a 
grip of your hand, man, for auld langsyne. — What ! not 
clap palms ere we part — well, so be it — a wilful man 
will have his way — and so, farewell, and the blessing of 
the morning to you.” 

“ Good-morrow — good-niorrow,” said Roland, hasti- 
ly ; and the clown walked lightly off, whistling as he 
went, and glad, apparently, to be rid of an acquaintance, 
whose claims might be troublesome, and who had no 
longer the means to be serviceable to him. 

Roland Gra3me compelled himself to walk on while 
they were within sight of each other, that his former inti- 
mate might not augur any vascillation of purpose, or un- 
certainty of object, from his remaining on the same spot ; 
but the effort was a painful one. He seemed stunned, 
as it were, and giddy ; the earth on which he stood felt 
as if unsound, and quaking under his feet like the sur- 
face of a bog: and he had once or twice nearly fallen, 


THE ABBOT. 


75 


though the path he trod was of firm green-sward. He 
kept resolutely moving forward, in spite of the internal 
agitation to which these symptoms belonged, until the 
distant form of his acquaintance disappeared behind the 
slope of a hill, when his heart failed at once ; and, 
sitting down on the turf, remote from human ken, he 
gave way to the natural expressions of wounded pride, 
grief, and fear, and wept with unrestrained profusion and 
unqualified bitterness. 

When the first violent paroxysm of his feelings had 
subsided, the deserted and friendless youth felt that men- 
tal relief which usually follows such discharges of sorrow. 
The tears continued to chase each other down his cheeks, 
but they were no longer accompanied by the same sense 
of desolation ; an afflicting yet milder sentiment was 
awakened ir^is mind, by the recollection of his bene- 
factress, of ^ unwearied kindness which had attached 
her to him, in spite of many acts of provoking petulance, 
now recollected as offences of a^ deep die, which had 
protected him against the machinations of others, as well 
as against the consequences of his own folly, and would 
have continued to do so, had not the excess of his pre- 
sumption compelled her to withdraw her protection. 

“Whatever indignity I have borne,” he said, “has 
been the just reward of my own ingratitude. And have I 
done well to accept the hospitality, the more than mater- 
nal kindness of ray protectress, yet to detain from her 
the knowledge of my religion ? — but she shall know that 
a Catholic has as much gratitude as a puritan — that I 
have been thoughtless but not wicked — that in my wild- 
est morqents, I have loved, respected, and honoured her 
— and that the orphan boy might indeed be heedless, but 
was never ungrateful!” 

He turned as these thoughts passed through his mind, 
and began hastily to retread his footsteps towards the 
castle. *but he checked the first eagerness of his re- 
pentant haste, when he reflected on the scorn and con- 
tempt with which the family were likely to see the 
return of the fugitive, humbled, as they must necessarily 


76 


THE ABBOT. 


suppose him, into a supplicant, who requested pardon for 
his fault, and permission to return to his service. He 
slackened his pace, but he stood not still. 

‘‘ I care not,’’ he resolutely determined ; “ let them 
wink, point, nod, sneer, speak of the conceit which is 
humbled, of the pride which has had a fall — I ca/e not ; 
it is a penance due to my folly, and 1 will endure it with 
patience. But if she also, my benefactress, if she also 
should think me sordid and weak-spirited enough to beg, 
not for her pardon alone, but for a renewal of the advan- 
tages which I derived from her favour — her suspicion 
of my meanness I cannot — I will not brook.” 

He stood still, and his pride rallying with constitutional 
obstinacy against his more just feeling, urged that he 
would incur the scorn of the Lady of Avenel, rather than 
obtain her favour, by following the course ^ich the first 
ardour of his repentant feelings had dictat®to him. 

“ If I had but some plausible pretext,” he thought, 
“ some ostensible reason for my return, some excuse to 
allege which might show I came not as a degraded sup- 
plicant, or a discarded menial, 1 might go thither — but as 
I am, 1 cannot — my heart would leap from its place and 
burst.” 

As these thoughts sw’ept through his mind, something 
passed in the air so near him as to dazzle his eyes, and 
almost to brush the plume in his cap. He looked up — 
it was the favourite falcon of Sir Halbert, which, flying 
around his head, seemed to claim his attention, as that of 
a well-known friend. Roland extended his arm, and 
gave the accustomed whoop, and the falcon instantly set- 
tled on his wrist, and began to prune itself, glancing at 
the youth from lime to time an acute and brilliant beam 
of its hazel eye, which seemed to ask why he caressed 
it not with his usual fondness. 

“ Ah, Diamond !” he said, as if the bird understood 
him, “ thou and I must be strangers henceforward. Many 
a gallant stoop have I seen thee make, and many a brave 
heron strike down ; but that is all gone and over, and 
there is no hawking more for me.” 


THE ABBOT. 


77 


'tv 

‘‘And why not, Master Roland,” said Adam Wood- 
cock the falconer, who came at that instant from behind 
a few alder bushes which had concealed him from view, 
“ why should there be no more hawking for you Why, 
man, what were our life without our sports?— thou know’st 
the jolly old song — 

And rather would Allan in dungeon lie, 

Than live at large where the falcon cannot fly ; 

And Allan would rather lie in Sexton’s pound, 

Than live where he follow’d not the merry hawk and hound.” 

The voice of the falconer was hearty and friendly, and 
the tone in which he half-sung, half-recited his rude bal- 
lad, implied honest frankness and cordiality. But re- 
membrance of their quarrel, and its consequences, em- 
barrassed Rol|jid, and prevented his reply. The falconer 
saw his hesit^p)n, and guessed the cause. 

“ What now,” said he, “ Master Roland ? do you, who 
are half an Englishman, think that I, who am a whole one, 
would keep up anger against you, and you in distress? 
That were like some of the Scots, (my master’s rever- 
ence always excepted,) who can be fair and false, and 
wait their time, and keep their mind, as they say, to 
themselves, and touch pot and flagon with you, and hunt 
and hawk with you, and after all, when time^serves, pay 
off some old feud with the point of the dagger. Canny 
Yorkshire has no memory for such old sores. Why, 
man, an you had hit me a rough blow, maybe I would 
rather have taken it from you, than a rough word from 
another ; fof'you have a good notion of falconry, though 
you stand up for washing the meat for the eyasses. So 
give us your hand, man, and bear no malice. 

Roland, though he felt his proud blood rebel at the 
familiarity of honest Adam’s address, could not resist its 
downright frankness. Covering his face with the one 
hand, he held out the other to the falconer, and return- 
ed with readiness his friendly grasp. 

“Why, this is hearty now,” said Woodcock; “1 
always said you had a kind heart, though you have a 
7* VOL. I. 


78 


THE ABBOT. 


spice of the devil in your disposition, that is certain. I 
came this way witli the falcon on purpose to find you, and 
yon half-bred lubbard told me which way you took flight. 
You ever thought too much of that kestril-kite. Master Ro- 
land, and he knows nought of sport after all, but what he 
caught from you. I saw how it had been betwixt you, 
and I sent him out of my company with a wanion — I 
would rather have a rifler on my perch than a false knave 
at my elbow — And now. Master Roland, tell me what 
way wing ye 

“ That is as God pleases,” replied the page, with a 
sigh which he could not suppress. 

“ Nay, man, never droop a feather for being cast off,” 
said the falconer ; “ who knows but you may soar the 
better and fairer flight for all this yet f Look at Diamond 
there, ’tis a noble bird, and shows gallantl^vith his hood 
and bells and Jessies ; but there is man^lp wild falcon 
in Norway that would not change properties with him — 
And that is what I would say of you. You are no longer 
my lady’s page, and you will not clothe so fair, or feed 
so well, or sleep so soft, or show so gallant — What of 
all that ? if you are not her page, you are your own 
man, and may go where you will, without minding whoop 
or whistle. The worst is the loss of the sport, but who 
knows what you may come to ? They say that Sir Hal- 
bert himself, I speak with reverence, was once glad to 
be the Abbot’s forester, and now he has hounds and 
hawks of his own, and Adam Woodcock for a falconer 
to the boot.” 

“You are right, and say well, Adam,” Answered the 
youth, the blood mantling in his cheeks, “ the falcon 
will soar higher without his bells than with them, though 
the bells be made of silver.” 

“That is cheerily spoken,” replied the falconer; 
“ and whither now ?” 

“ I thought of going to the Abbey of Kennaquhair,” 
answered Roland Gra3me, “ to ask the counsel of Father 
Ambrose.” 


THE ABBOT. 


79 


“ And joy go with you,” said the falconer, “ though 
it is likely you may find the old monks in some sorrow ; 
they say the commons are threatening to turn them out 
of their cells, and make a devil’s mass of it in the old 
church, thinking they have forborne that sport too long ; 
and troth I am clear of the same opinion.” 

‘‘Then will Father Ambrose be the better of having 
a friend beside him !” said the page, manfully. 

“ Ay, but my young fearnought,” replied the falconer, 
“ the friend will scarce be the better of being beside 
F ather Ambrose — he may come by the redder’s lick, and 
that is ever the worst of the battle.” 

“ I care not for that,” said the page, “ the dread of a 
lick should not hold me back ; but 1 fear I may bring 
trouble between the brothers by visiting Father Ambrose. 
I will tarry to-night at Saint Cuthbert’s cell, where the 
old priest wilt give me a night’s shelter ; and I will send 
to Father Ambrose to ask his advice before I go down 
to the convent.” 

“ By Our Lady,” said the falconer, ‘‘ and that is a likely 
plan!— and now,” he continued, changing his frank- 
ness of manner for a sort of awkward embarrassment, as 
if he had somewhat to say that he had no ready means 
to bring out — “ and now, you wot well that I wear a 
pouch for my hawks’ meat,^and so forth ; but wot ye 
what it is lined with. Master Roland 

“ With leather, to be sure,” replied Roland, somewhat 
surprised at the hesitation with which Adam Woodcock 
asked a question apparently so simple. 

“ With leather, lad said Woodcock ; “ ay, and 
with silver to the boot of that. See here,” he said, 
showing a secret slit in the lining of his bag of office — 
“here they are, thirty good Harry groats as ever were 
struck in bluff old Hal’s time, and ten of them are right 
heartily at your service ; and now the murder is out.” 

Roland’s first idea was to refuse this assistance ; but 
he recollected the vows of humility which he had just 
taken upon him, and it occurred that this was the oppor- 


80 


THE ABBOT. 


tunlty to put his new-formed resolution to the test. As- 
suming a strong command of himself, he answered Adam 
Woodcock witli as much frankness as his nature permitted 
him to wear, in doing what was so contrary to his inclina- 
tions, that he -accepted thankfully of his kind offer, while, 
to sooth his own reviving pride, he could not help add- 
ing, “ he hoped soon to requite the obligation.” 

“ That as you list — that as you list, young man,” said 
the falconer with glee, counting out and delivering to his 
young friend the supply he had so generously offered, 
and then adding, with great cheerfulness, — “ Now' 'you 
may go through the world ; for he that can back a horse, 
wind a horn, hollow a greyhound, fly a hawk, and play 
at sword and buckler, with a whole pair of shoes, a green 
jacket, and ten lily-white groats in his pouch, may bid 
Father Care hang himself in his own Jessies. Farewell, 
and God be with you!” ^ 

So saying, and as if desirous to avoid the thanks of 
his companion, he turned hastily round, and left Roland 
Graeme to pursue his journey alone. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


The sacred tapers’ lights are gone, 

Grey moss has clad the altar stone, 

The holy image is o’erthrown, 

The bell has ceased to toll. 

The long ribb’d aisles are burst and shrunk, 

The holy shrines to ruin sunk, 

Departed is the pious monk, 

God’s blessing on his soul 1 

Redivim. 

The Cell of Saint Cuthbert, as it was called, marked, 
or was supposed to mark, one of those resting-places, 
which that venerable saint was' pleased to assign to his 
naonks, when his convent being driven from Lindisfern 


THE ABBOT. 


81 


by the Danes, became a peripatetic society of religion- 
ists ; and bearing their patron’s body on their shoulders, 
transported him from place to place through Scotland 
and the borders of England, until he was pleased at 
length to spare them the pain of carrying him farther, 
and to choose his ultimate place of rest in the lordly 
towers of Durham. The odour of his sanctity remained 
behind him at each place where he had granted the 
monks a transient respite from their labours ; and proud 
were those who could assign as his temporary resting- 
place, any spot within their vicinity. There were few 
cells more celebrated and honoured than that of St. Cuth- 
bert, to which Roland Graeme now bent his w'ay, situated 
considerably to the north-west of the great Abbey of 
Kennaquhair, on which it was dependent. In the neigh- 
bourhood were some of those recommendations which 
weighed with v the experienced priesthood of Rome, in 
choosing their sites for places of religion. 

There was a well, possessed of some medicinal quali- 
ties, which, of course, claimed the saint for its guardian 
and patron, and occasionally produced some advan- 
tage to the recluse who inhabited his cell, since none 
could reasonably expect to benefit by the fountain 
who did not extend their bounty to the saint’s chaplain. 
A few roods of fertile land afforded the monk his plot of 
garden ground ; an eminence well clothed with trees 
rose behind the cell, and sheltered it from the north and 
the east, while the front opening to the south-west, look- 
ed up a wild but pleasant valley, down which wandered 
a lively brook, which battled with every stone that in- 
terrupted its passage. 

The cell itself was rather plainly than rudely construct- 
ed — a low Gothic building with two small apartments, one 
of which served the priest for his dwelling-place, the other 
for his chapel. As there were few of the secular clergy 
who durst venture to reside so near the Border, the as- 
sistance of this monk in spiritual affairs had not been 
useless to the community, while the Catholic religion re- 
tained the ascendency ; as he could marry, christen, and 


82 


THE ABBOT. 


administer the other sacraments of the Roman church. 
Of late, novvever, as the Protestant doctrines gained 
ground, he had found it convenient to live in close retire- 
ment, and to avoid, as much as possible, drawing upon 
himself observation or animadversion. The appearance 
of his habitation, however, when Roland Graeme came 
before it in the close of the evening, plainly showed that 
his caution had been finally ineftectual. 

The page’s first movement was to knock at the door, 
when he observed to his surprise, that it was open, not 
from being left unlatched, but because beat off its upper 
hinge, it was only fastened to the door-post by the lower, 
and could therefore no longer perform its functions. 
Somewhat alarmed at this, and receiving no answer 
when he knocked and called, Roland began to look more 
at leisure upon the exterior of the little dwelling, before 
he ventured to enter it. The flowers, which had been 
trained with care against the walls, seemed to have been 
recently torn down, and trailed their dishonoured gar- 
lands on the earth 5 the latticed window was broken and 
dashed in. The garden, which the monk had maintained 
by his constant labour in the highest order and beauty, 
bore marks of having been lately trod down and de- 
stroyed by the hoofs of animals and the feet of men. 

The sainted spring had not escaped. It was wont to 
rise beneath a canopy of ribbed arches, with which the 
devotion of elder times had secured and protected its 
healing waters. These arches were now almost entirely 
demolished, and the stones of which they were built 
were tumbled into the well, as if for the purpose of 
choking up and destroying the fountain, which, as it had 
shared in other days the honour of the saint, was, in the 
present, doomed to partake his unpopularity. Part of 
the roof had been pulled down from the house itself, and 
an attempt had been made with crows and levers upon 
one of the angles, by which several large corner-stones 
had been forced out of their place but the solidity of 
ancient mason-work had proved too great for the time 
or patience of the assailants, and they had relinquished 


THE ABBOT. 


83 


their task of clestrnclion. Such dilapidated buildings, 
after the lapse of years, during which nature has gradu- 
ally covered the effects of violence with creeping plants, 
and with weather-stains, exhibit, amid their decay, a 
melancholy beauty. But when the visible effects of vio- 
lence appear raw and recent, there is no feeling to miti- 
gate the sense of devastation with which they impress 
the spectators ; and such was now the scene on which 
the youthful page gazed, with the painful feelings it was 
qualified to excite. 

When his first momentary surprise was over, Roland 
Graaine was at no loss to conjecture the cause of these 
ravages. The destruction of the Popish edifices did not 
take place at once throughout Scotland, but at different 
times, and according to the spirit which actuated the re- 
formed clergy ; some of whom instigated their hearers 
to these acts of demolition ; and others, with better taste 
and feeling, endeavoured to protect the ancient shrines, 
while they desired to see them purified from the objects 
which had attracted idolatrous devotion. From time to 
time, therefore, the populace of the Scottish towns and 
villages, when instigated either by their own feelings 
of abhorrence for Popish superstition, or by the doc- 
trines of the more zealous preachers, resumed the work 
of destruction, and exercised it upon some seques- 
tered church, chapel, or cell, which had escaped the 
first burst of their indignation against the religion of 
Rome. In many places, the vices of the Catholic cler- 
gy, arising out of the wealth and the corruption of that 
tremendous hierarchy, furnished too good an apology 
for wreaking vengeance upon the splendid edifices which 
they inhabited ; and of this an old Scottish historian 
gives a remarkable instance. 

“ Why mourn ye !” said an aged matron, seeing the 
discontent of some of the citizens, while a stately con- 
vent was burnt by the multitude, ‘‘ why mourn ye for 
its destruction ? If you knew half the flagitious wicked- 
ness which has been perpetrated within that house, you 
would rather bless the divine judgment, which permits 


84 


THE ABBOT. 


not even the senseless walls that screened such profli- 
gacy, any longer to cumber Christian ground!” 

But although, in many instances, the destruction of the 
Roman Catholic buildings might be, in the matron’s way 
of judging, an act of justice, and in others an act of poli- 
cy, there is no doubt that the humour of demolishing 
monuments of ancient piety and munificence, and that 
in a poor country like Scotland, where there was no 
chance of their being replaced, was both useless, mis- 
chievous, and barbarous. 

In the present instance, the unpretending and quiet 
seclusion of the monk of St. Cuthbert’s had hitherto 
saved him from the general wreck ; but it would seem 
ruin had now at length reached him. Anxious to dis- 
cover if he had at least escaped personal harm, Roland 
Grffime entered the half-ruined cell. 

The interior of the building was in a state which fully 
justified the opinion he had formed from its external 
injuries. The few rude utensils of the solitary’s hut 
were broken down and lay scattered on the floor, where 
it seemed as if a fire had been made with some of the 
fragments to destroy the rest of his property, and to con- 
sume, in particular, the rude old image of St. Cuthbert, 
in its episcopal habit, which lay on the hearth like Da- 
gon of yore, shattered with the axe and scorched with 
the flames, but only partially destroyed. In the little 
apartment, which served as a chapel, the altar was over- 
thrown, and the four huge stones of which it had been 
once composed lay scattered around the floor. The 
large stone crucifix which occupied the niche behind 
the altar, and fronted the supplicant while he paid his de- 
votion there, had been pulled down, and dashed by its 
own weight into three fragments. There were marks 
of sledge-hammers on each of these ; yet the image had 
been saved from utter demolition by the size and strength 
of the remaining fragments, which, though much injured, 
retained enough of the original sculpture to show what 
it had been intended to represent.® 


THE ABBOT. 


85 


Roland Grsrne, secretly nursed in the tenets of Rome, 
saw with horror the profanation of the most sacred em- 
blem, according to his creed, of our holy religion. 

“ It is the badge of our redemption,” he said, “ which 
the felons have dared to violate — would to God my 
weak strength were able to replace it — my humble 
reverence to atone for the sacrilege !” 

He stooped to the task he first meditated, and with a 
sudden, and to himself almost an incredible exertion of 
power, he lifted up the one extremity of the lower shaft 
of the cross, and rested it upon the edge of the large 
stone which served for its pedestal. Encouraged by 
this success, he applied his force to the other extremity, 
and, to his own astonishment, succeeded so far as to erect 
the lower end of the limb into the socket, out of which 
it had been forced, and to place this fragment of the im- 
age' upright. 

While he was employed in this labour, or rather at the 
very moment when he had accomplished the elevation 
of the fragment, a voice, in thrilling and well-known ac- 
cents, spoke behind him these words : — “ Well done, 
thou good and faithful servant ! Thus would I again 
meet the child of my love — the hope of my aged eyes.” 

Roland turned round in astonishment, and the tall 
commanding form of Magdalen Grasme stood beside him. 
She was arrayed in a sort of loose habit, in form like 
that worn by penitents in Catholic countries, but black 
in colour, and approaching as near to a pilgrim’s cloak 
as it was safe to wear in a country where the suspicion 
of Catholic devotion in many places endangered the 
safety of those who were suspected of attachment to the 
ancient faith. Roland Graeme threw himself at her feet. 
She raised and embraced him with affection indeed, but 
not unmixed with gravity which amounted almost to 
sternness. 

“ Thou hast kept well,” she said, “ the bird in thy 
bosom. As a boy, as a youth, thou hast held fist thy 
faith amongst heretics — thou hast kept thy secret and 
mine own amongst thine enemies. I wept when I part- 

8 VOL. I. 


86 


THE ABBOT. 


ed 'from you — I, who seldom weep, then shed tears, 
less for thy death than for thy spiritual danger — I dared 
not even see thee to bid thee a last farewell — rny grief, 
my swelling grief, had betrayed me to these heretics. 
But thou hast been faithful — down, down on thy knees 
before the holy sign, which evil men injure and blaspheme ; 
down, and praise saints and angels for the grace they 
have done thee, in preserving thee from the leprous 
plague which cleaves to the house in which thou wert 
nurtured!” 

“ If, my mother — so I must ever call you,” replied 
Giceme, — “if I am returned such as thou wouldst wish 
me, thou must thank the care of the pious father Am- 
brose, whose instructions confirmed your early precepts, 
and taught me at once to be faithful and to be silent.” 

“ Be he blessed for it !” said she, “ blessed in the cell 
and in the field, in the pulpit and at the altar — the saints 
rain blessings on him ! — they are just, and employ his 
pious care to counteract the evils which his detested 
brother works against the realm a'nd the church. But 
he knew not of thy lineage ?” 

“ I could not myself tell him that,” answered Ro- 
land. “ 1 knew but darkly from your words, that Sir Hal- 
bert Glendinning holds mine inheritance, and that I am 
of blood as noble as runs in the veins of any Scottish 
Baron — these are things not to be forgotten, hut for the 
explanation I must now look to you.” 

“ And when time suits thou shalt not ask for it in vain. 
But men say, my son, that thou art bold and sudden ; 
and those who bear such tempers are not lightly to be 
trusted with what will strongly move them.” 

“ Say rather, my mother,” returned Roland Grasme, 
“ that 1 am laggard and cold-blooded — what patience or 
endurance can you require of which he is not capable, 
who for years has heard his religion ridiculed and insult- 
ed, yet failed to plunge his dagger into the blasphemer’s 
bosom 1” 

“ Be contented, my child,” rej)lied Magdalen Gi’teme ; 
“ the time which then and even now demands patience, 


THE ABBOT. 


87 


will soon ripen to that of effort and action — great events 
are on the wing, and thou — thou shall have thy share in 
advancing them. Thou hast relinquished the service of 
the Lady of Avenel 

“ I have been dismissed from it, my mother — I have 
'lived to be dismissed, as if I were the meanest of the 
train.” 

“ It is the better, my child,” replied she ; “ thy mind 
will be the more hardened to undertake that which must 
be performed.” 

“ Let it be nothing, then, against the Lady of Avenel,” 
said the page, “ as thy look and words seem to imply. 
I have eaten her bread — 1 have experienced her favour 
— I will neither injure nor betray her.” 

“ Of that hereafter, my son,” said she ; but learn 
this, that it is not for thee to capitulate in thy duty, and 
to say, this will I do, and that will 1 leave undone — No, 
Roland ! God and man will no longer abide the wicked- 
ness of this generation. — Seest thou these fragments — 
knovvest thou what they represent — and canst thou 
think it is for thee to make distinctions amongst a race 
so accursed by Heaven, that they renounce, violate, blas- 
pheme, and destroy whatsoever we are commanded to be- 
lieve in, whatsoever we are commanded to reverence 

As she spoke, she bent her head towards the broken 
image, with a countenance in which strong resentment 
and zeal were mingled with an expression of ecstatic 
devotion ; she raised her left hand aloft as in the act of 
making a vow, and thus proceeded : “ Bear witness for 
me, blessed symbol of our salvation, bear witness, holy 
saint, within whose violated temple we stand, that as it is 
not for vengeance of my own that my hate pursues these 
people, so neither, for any favour or earthly affection to- 
wards any amongst them, will 1 withdraw my hand from 
the plough, when it shall pass through (he devoted furrow ! 
Bear witness, holy saint, once thyself a wanderer and 
fugitive as we are now — bear witness. Mother of Mercy, 
Queen of Heaven — bear witness, saints and angels 1” 


88 


THE ABBOT. 


In this high strain of enthusiasm, she stood, raising 
her eyes through the fractured roof of tlie vault, to the 
stars which now began to twinkle through the pale twi- 
light, while the long grey tresses which hung down over 
h^r shoulders waved in the night-breeze, which the 
chasm and fractured windows admitted freely. 

Roland Grasme was too much awed by early habits, as 
well as by the mysterious import of her words, to ask for 
further explanation of the purpose she obscurely hinted 
at. Nor did she farther press him on the subject ; for 
having concluded her prayer or obtestation, by clasping 
her hands together with solemnity, and then signing her- 
self with the cross, she again addressed her grandson in 
a tone more adapted to the ordinary business of life. 

“ Thou must hence,” she said, “ Roland, thou must 
hence, but not till morning — And now, how wilt thou 
sl^ift for thy nighrs quarters ? — thou hast been more soft- 
ly bred than when we were companions in the misty hills 
of Cumberland and Liddesdale.” 

“ J have at least preserved, my good mother, the hab- 
its^which I then learned — can lie hard, feed sparingly, and 
think it no hardship. Since I was a wanderer with thee 
on the hills, I have been a hunter, and fisher, and fowler, 
and each of these is accustomed to sleep freely in a 
worse shelter than sacrilege has left us here.” 

“ Than sacrilege has left us here !” said the matron, 
repeating his words, and pausing on them, — “ Most true, 
my son ; and God’s faithful children are now worst 
sheltered, when they lodge in God’s own house and the 
demesne of his blessed saints. We shall sleep cold here, 
under the night-wind, which whistles through the breach- 
es that heresy has made. They shall lie warmer who 
made them — ay, and through a long hereafter!” 

Notwithstanding the wild and singular expressions of 
this female, she appeared toretain towards Roland Grteme, 
in a strong degree, that affectionate and sedulous love 
which women bear to their nurslings and the children 
dependent on their care. It seemed as if she would not 
permit him to do aught for himself which in former days 


THE ABBOT. 


89 


her attention had been used to do for him, and that she 
considered the tall stripling before her as being equally 
dependent on her careful attention as when he was the 
orphan child, who had owed all to her affectionate solici- 
tude. 

“ What hast thou to eat now she said, a^, leaving 
the Chapel, they went into the deserted habitation of the ♦ 
priest ; “ or what means of kindling a fire, to defend 
bee from this raw and inclement air Poor child ! thou 
nast made slight provision for a long journey ; nor hast 
thou skill to help tliyself by wit, when means are scanty. 
But Our Lady has placed by thy side one to whom want, 
in all its forms, is as familiar as plenty and splendour 
have formerly been. And with want, Roland, come the 
arts of which she is the inventor.” 

With an active and officious diligence, which strangely 
contrasted with her late abstracted and high tone* of 
Catholic devotion, she set about her domestic arrange- 
ments for the evening. A pouch, which was hidden un- 
der her garment, produced a flint and steel, and from the 
scattered fragments around (those pertaining to the image 
of Saint Cuthbert scrupulously excepted) she obtained 
splinters sufficient to raise a sparkling and cheerful fire 
on the hearth of the deserted cell. 

“ And now,” she said, “ for needful food.” 

“ Think not of it, mother,” said Roland, “ unless 
you yourself feel hunger. It is a little thing for me to 
endure a night’s abstinence, and a small atonement for 
the necessary transgression of the rules of the Church, 
upon which I was compelled during my stay in the castle.” 

“ Hunger for myself !” answered the matron — , 

“ Know, youth, that a mother knows not hunger till that 
of her child is satisfied.” And with affectionate incon- 
sistency, totally different from her usual manner, she 
added, “ Roland, you must not fast ; you have dispen- 
sation ; you are young, and to youth food and sleep are 
necessaries not to be dispensed with. Husband your 
strength, my child, — your sovereign, your religion, your 
country require it. Let age macerate by fast and vigil 

8* VOL. I. 


90 


THE ABBOT. 


a body which can only suffer ; let youth, in these active 
times, nourish the limbs and the strength which action 
requires.’^ 

While she thus spoke, the scrip, which had produced 
the means of striking fire, furnished provision for a meal ; 
of which she herself scarce partook, but anxiously 
watched her charge, taking a pleasure, resembling that 
of an epicure, in each morsel which he swallowed, with 
a youthful appetite which abstinence had rendered un- 
usually sharp. Roland readily obeyed her recommen- 
dations, and ate the food which she so affectionately and 
earnestly placed before him. But she shook her head 
when invited by him in return to partake of the refresh- 
ment her own cares had furnished ; and when his solici- 
tude became more pressing, she refused him in a loftier 
tone of rejection. 

“ Young man,” she said, “ you know not to whom, 
or of what, you speak. They to whom Heaven de- 
clares its purpose must merit its communication by mor- 
tifying the senses ; they have that within which requires 
not the superfluity of earthly nutriment, which is neces- 
sary to those who are without the sphere of the Vision. 
To them the watch spent in prayer is a refreshing slum- 
ber, and the sense of doing the will of Heaven is a 
richer banquet than the tables of monarchs can spread 
before them ! — But do thou sleep soft, my son,” she said, 
relapsing from the tone of fanaticism into that of mater- 
nal affection and tenderness ; — “ do thou sleep sound 
while life is but young with thee, and the cares of the 
day can be drowned in the slumbers of the evening. 
Different is thy duty and mine, and as different the means 
by which we must qualify and strengthen ourselves to 
perform it. From thee is demanded strength of body 
— from me, strength of soul.” 

When she thus spoke, she prepared with ready address 
a pallet-couch, composed partly of the dried leaves 
which had once furnished a bed to the solitary, and the 
guests who occasionally received his hospitality, and 
which, ’neglected by the destroyers of his humble cell, 


THE ABBOT. 


91 


had remained little disturbed in the corner allotted for 
them. To these her care added some of the vestures 
which lay torn and scattered on the floor. With a zeal- 
ous hand she selected all such as appeared to have made 
any part of the sacerdotal vestments, laying them aside 
as sacred from ordinary purposes, and with the rest she 
made, with dexterous promptness, such a bed as a weary 
man might willingly stretch himself on ; and during the 
time she was preparing it, rejected, even with acrimony, 
any attempt which the youth made to assist her, or any 
entreaty which he urged that she should accept o<' the 
place of rest for her own use. “ Sleep thou,” said she, 
“ Roland Graeme, sleep thou — the persecuted, the disin- 
herited orphan — the son of an ill-fated motlier — sleep 
thou ! I go to pray in the Chapel beside thee.” 

The manner was too enthusiastically earnest, too ob- 
stinately firm, to permit Roland Graeme to dispute her 
will any farther. Yet he felt some shame in giving way 
to it. It seemed as if she had forgotten the years that 
had passed away since their parting ; and expected to 
meet in the tall, indulged, and wilful youth, whom she 
had recovered, the passive obedience of the child whom 
she had left in the Castle of Avenel. This did not fail 
to hurt her grandson’s characteristic and constitutional 
pride. He obeyed indeed, awed into submission by the 
sudden recurrence of former subordination, and by feel- 
ings of affection and gratitude. Still, however, he felt 
the yoke. 

“ Have I relinquished the hawk and the hound,” he 
said, “ to become the pupil of her pleasure, as if I were 
still a child ? I, whom even my envious mates allowed to 
be superior in those exercises which they took most pains 
to acquire, and which came to me naturally, as if a 
knowledge of them had been my birthright ? This may 
not, and must not be. I will be no reclaimed sparrow- 
hawk, who is carried hooded on a woman’s wrist, and has 
his quarry only shown to him when his eyes are uncover- 


92 


THE ABBOT. 


ed for his flight. I will know her purpose ere it is pro- 
posed to me to aid it.” 

These, and other thoughts, streamed through the mind 
of Roland Graeme ; and although wearied with the fa- 
tigues of the day, it was long ere he could compose liim- 
self to rest. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Kneel with me — swear it — ’tis not in words I trust, 

Save when they’re fenced with an appeal to Heaven. 

Old Play. 

After passing the night in that sound sleep for which 
agitation and fatigue had prepared him, Roland was 
awakened by the fresh morning air, and by the beams of 
the rising sun. His first feeling was that of surprise ; 
for, instead of looking forth from a turret window on 
the waters of the Lake of Avenel, which was the pros- 
pect his former apartment afforded, an unlatticed aper- 
ture gave him the view of the demolished garden of the 
banished anchorite. He sat up on his couch of leaves, 
and arranged in his memory, not without wonder, the 
singular events of the preceding day, which appeared 
the more surprising the more he considered them. He 
had lost the protectress of his youth, and in the same 
day, he had recovered the guide and guardian of bis 
childhood. The former deprivation he felt ought to be 
matter of unceasing regret, and it seemed as if the latter 
could hardly be the subject of unmixed self-congratula- 
tion. He remembered this person who had stood to 
him in the relation of a mother, as equally affectionate 
in her attention, and absolute in her authority. A singu- 
lar mixture of love and fear attended upon his early re- 
membrances as they were connected' with her ; and the 
fear that she might desire to resume the same absolute 


THE ABBOT. 


93 


control over his motions — a fear which her conduct of 
yesterday did not tend much to dissipate, weighed heav- 
ily against the joy of this second meeting. 

She cannot mean, said his rising pride, to lead and 
direct me as a pupil, when I am at the age of judging of 
my own actions ? — this she cannot mean, or, meaning it, 
will feel herself strangely deceived. 

A sense of gratitude towards the person against whom 
his heart thus rebelled, checked this course of feeling. 
He resisted the thoughts which inv^oluntarily arose in his 
mind, as he would have resisted an actual instigation ol 
the foul fiend ; and, to aid him in his struggle, he felt 
for his beads. But, in his hasty departure from the 
Castle of Avenel, he had forgotten and left them behind 
him. 

This is yet worse, he said ; but two things I learned 
of her under the most deadly charge of secrecy — to tell 
my beads, and to conceal that I did so ; and I have kept 
my word till now, and when she shall ask me for the ro- 
sary, I must say I have forgotten it ! Do I deserve she 
should believe me when I say I have kept the secret of 
my faith, when 1 set so light by its symbol ? 

He paced the floor in anxious agitation. In fact, his 
attachment to his faith was of a nature very different 
from that which animated the enthusiastic matron, but 
which, notwithstanding, it would have been his last 
thought to relinquish. 

Tne early charges Impressed on him by his grand- 
mother, had been instilled into a mind and memory of a 
character peculiarly tenacious. Child as he was, he was 
proud of the confidence reposed in his discretion, and 
resolved to show that it had not been rashly intrusted to 
him. At the same time, his resolution was no more than 
that of a child, and must, necessarily, have gradually 
faded away under the operation both of precept and ex- 
ample, during his residence at the Castle of Avenel, but 
for the exhortations of Father Ambrose, who, in his lay 
estate, had been called Edward Glendinning. This zeal- 
ous monk had been apprized, by an unsigned letter plac- 


94 


THE ABBOT. 


ed in his hand by a pilgrim, that a child educated in the 
Catholic faith was now in the Castle of Avenel, perilous- 
ly situated, (so was the scroll expressed) as ever the 
three children who were cast into the fiery furnace of 
persecution. The letter threw upon Father Ambrose 
the fault, should this solitary lamb, unwillingly left with- 
in the demesnes of the prowling wolf, become his final 
prey. There needed no farther exhortation to the 
monk than the idea that a soul might be endangered, and 
that a Catholic might become an apostate ; and lie made 
his visits more frequent than usual to the Castle of Ave- 
nel, lest, through want of the private encouragement and 
instruction which he always found some opportunity of 
dispensing, the church should lose a proselyte, and, ac- 
cording to the Romish creed, the devil acquire a soul. 

Still these interviews were rare ; and though they en- 
couraged the solitary boy to keep his secret and hold 
fast his religion, they were neither frequent nor long 
enough to inspire him with anything beyond a blind at- 
tachment to the observances which the priest recom- 
mended. He adhered to the forms of his religion rather 
because he felt it would be dishonourable to change that 
of his fathers, than from any rational conviction or sincere 
belief of its mysterious doctrines. It was a principal part 
of the distinction which, in his own opinion, singled him 
out from those wdth whom he lived, and gave him an addi- 
tional, though an internal and concealed reason, for con- 
temning those of the household who showed an undis- 
guised dislike of him, and for hardening himself against 
the instructions of the chaplain, Henry Warden. 

The fanatic preacher, he thought within himself, dur- 
ing some one of the chaplain’s frequent discourses against 
the Church of Rome, he little knows whose ears are re- 
ceiving his profane doctrine, and with what contempt and 
abhorrence they hear his blasphemies against the holy 
religion by which kings have been crowned, and for 
which martyrs have died ! 

But in such proud feelings of defiance of heresy, as 
it was termed, and of its professors, which associated 


THE ABBOT. 


95 


the Catholic religion with a sense of generous indepen- 
dence, and that of the Protestants with the subjugation of 
his mind and temper to the direction of Mr. Warden, 
began and ended the faith of Roland Graeme, who, in- 
dependently of the pride of singularity, sought not to 
understand, and had no one to expound to him the pe- 
culiarities of the tenets which he professed. His regret, 
therefore, at missing the rosary which had been convey- 
ed to him through the hands of Father Ambrose, was 
rather the shame of a soldier who has dropped his cock- 
ade, or badge of service, than that of a zealous votary 
who had forgotten a visible symbol of his religion. 

His thoughts on the subject, however, were mortifying, 
and the more so from apprehension that his negligence 
must reach the ears of his relative. He felt it could be 
no one but her who had secretly transmitted these 
beads to Father Ambrose for his use, and that his care- 
lessness was but an indifferent requital of her kindness. 

Nor will she omit to ask me about them, said he to 
himself; for her’s is a zeal which age cannot quell ; and 
if she has not quitted lier wont, my answer will not fail 
to incense her. 

While be thus communed with himself, Magdalen 
Graeme entered the apartment? “ The blessing of the 
morning on your youthful head, my son,” she said, with 
a solemnity of expression which thrilled the youth to the 
heart, so sad and earnest. did the benediction flow from 
her lips in a tone where devotion was blended with af- 
fection. “ And thou hast started thus early from thy 
couch to catch the first breath of the dawn ^ But it is 
not well, my Roland. Enjoy slumber while thou canst ; 
the time is riot far behind when the waking eye must be 
thy portion, as well as mine.” 

She uttered these words with an affectionate and anx- 
ious tone, which showed, that devotional as were the ha- 
bitual exercises of her mind, the thoughts of her nurs- 
ling yet bound her to earth with the cords of human 
affection and passion. 


96 


THE ABBOT. 


But she abode not long in a mood which she probably 
regarded as a momentary dereliction of her imaginary 
high calling — “ Come,” she said, “ youth, up and be 
doing — It is time that we leave this place.” 

“ And whither do we go said tho young man ; 

“ or what is the object of our journey 

The matron stepped back, and gazed on him with sur- 
prise, not unmingled with displeasure. 

“ To what purpose such a question .^” she said ; “ is 
it not enough that 1 lead the way Hast thou lived with 
heretics till thou hast learned to install the vanity of 
thine own private judgment in place of due honour and 
obedience .^” 

The. lime, thought Roland Grasrne within himself, is 
already come, when 1 must establish my freedom, or be 
a willing thrall for ever — 1 feel that I must speedily look 
to it. 

She instantly fulfilled his foreboding, by recurring to 
the theme by which her thoughts seemed most constant- 
ly engrossed, although, when she pleased, no one could 
so pel fectly disguise her religion. 

“ Thy beads, my son — hast thou told thy beads .^” 

Roland Graeme coloured high ; he felt the storm was 
approaching, but scornecTto avert it, by a falsehood. 

“ I have forgotten my rosary,” he said, at the Castle 
of Avenel.” 

“ Forgotten thy rosary !” she exclaimed ; ‘‘ false both 
to religion and to natural duty, hast thou lost what was 
sent so far, and at such risk, a token of the truest affec- 
tion, that should have been every bead of it, as dear to 
thee as thine eyeballs ?” 

“ 1 arn grieved it should have so chanced, mother,’ 
replied the youth, “ and much, did 1 value the token, as 
coftiing from you. For what remains, 1 trust to win gold 
enough, when I push my way in the world ; and till then, 
beads of black oak or a rosary of nuts, must serve the 
turn.” 

“ Hear him !” said his grandmother ; young as he 
is, he hath learned already the lessons of the devil’^ 
school ! The rosary, consecrated by the Holy Father 


THE ABBOT. 


97 


himself, and sanctified by his blessings, is but a few 
knobs of gold, whose value may be replaced by the wa- 
ges of bis profane labour, and whose virtue may be sup- 
plied by a siring of hazel nuts ! — This is heresy — So 
Henry Warden, the wolf who ravages the flock of the 
Shepherd, hath taught thee to speak and to think.” 

“ Mother,” said Roland Grasme, “ I am no heretic ; 
I believe and I pray according to the rules of our church 
— This misfortune I regret, but I cannot amend it.” 

“ Thou canst repent it though,” replied his spiritual 
directress, “ repent it in dust and ashes, atone for it by 
fasting, prayer, and penance, instead of looking on me 
with a countenance as light as if thou hadst lost but a 
button from thy cap.” 

“ Mother,” said Roland, “ be appeased ; I will re- 
member my fault in the next confession which I have 
space and opportunity to make, and will do whatever the 
priest may require of me in atonement. For the heav- 
iest fault I can do no more — But, mother,” he added, 
after a moment’s pause, “ let me not incur your farther 
displeasure, if I ask whither our journey is bound, and 
what is its object. I am no longer a child, but a man, 
and at my own disposal, with down upon my chin, and a 
sword by my side — I will go to the end of the world with 
you to do your pleasure ; but I owe it to myself to in- 
quire the purpose and direction of our travels.” 

“ You owe it to yourself, ungrateful boy replied his 
relative, passion rapidly supplying the colour which age 
had long chased from her features, — “ to yourself you 
owe nothing — you can owe nothing — to me you owe 
everything — your life when an infant — your support when 
a child — the means of instruction, and the hopes of hon- 
our — and, sooner than thou shouldst abandon the noble 
cause to which 1 have devoted thee, would I see thee lie 
a corpse at my feet!” 

Roland was alarmed at the vehement agitation with 
which she spoke, and which threatened to overpower her 
aged frame ; and he hastened to reply, — “ I forget noth- 
9 VOL. I. 


98 


THE ABBOT, 


ing of what I owe to you, my dearest mother — show me 
how my blood can testify my gratitude, and you shall 
judge if I spare it. But blindfold obedience has in it as 
little merit as reason.” 

“ Saints and angels !” replied Magdalen, “ and do I 
hear these words from the child of my hopes, the nurs- 
ling by whose bed 1 have kneeled, and for whose weal I 
have wearied every saint in heaven with prayers ? Ro- 
land, by obedience only canst thou show thy affection 
and thy gratitude. What avails it that you might per- 
chance adopt the course 1 propose to thee, were it to be 
fully explained ? Thou wouldst not then follow my com- 
mand, but thine own judgment ; thou wouldst not do the 
will of Heaven, communicated through thy best friend, 
to whom thou owest thine all ; but thou wouldst observe 
the blinded dictates of thine own imperfect reason. 
Hear me, Roland ! a lot calls thee — solicits thee — de- 
mands thee — the proudest to which man can be destined, 
and it uses the voice of thine earliest, thy best, thine only 
friend — Wilt thou resist it f Then go thy way — leave me 
here — my hopes on earth are gone and withered — I will 
kneel me down before yonder profaned altar, and when 
the raging heretics return, they shall dye it with the 
blood of a martyr!” 

“ But, my dearest mother,” said Roland Graeme, 
whose early recollections of her violence were formidably 
renewed by these wild expressions of reckless passion, 
“ I will not forsake you — I will abide with you — wmrlds 
shall not force me from your side — I will protect — I will 
defend you — I will live with you, and die for you!” 

“ One word, my son, were worth all these — say only 
1 will obey you.” 

“ Doubt it not, mother,” replied the youth, “ I will, 
and that with all my heart ; only” 

‘‘ Nay, I receive no qualifications of thy promise,” 
said Magdalen Graeme, catching at the word, “the obe- 
dience which I require is absolute; and a blessing on thee, 
thou darling memory of my beloved child, that thou hast 
power to make a promise so hard to human pride ! Trust 


THE ABBOT. 


99 


me well, that in the design in which thou dost embark, 
thou hast for thy partners the mighty and the valiant, the 
power of the church, and the pride of the noble. Suc- 
ceed or fail, live or die, thy name shall be among those 
with whom success or failure is alike glorious, death or 
life alike desirable. Forward, then, forward ! life is 
short, and our plan is laborious — Angels, saints, and thS 
whole blessed host of Heaven, have their eyes even now 
on this barren and blighted land of Scotland — What say 
I ? on Scotland ? — their eye is on us, Roland — on the 
frail woman, on the inexperienced youth, who, amidst 
the ruins which sacrilege hath made in the holy place, 
devote themselves to God’s cause, and that of their law- 
ful Sovereign. Amen, so be it ! The .blessed eyes of 
saints and martyrs, which see our resolve, shall witness 
the execution ; or their ears, which hear our vow, shall 
hear our death-groan drawn in the sacred cause!” 

While thus speaking, she held Roland Grasme firmly 
with one hand, while she pointed upward with the other, 
to leave him, as it were, no means of protest against the 
obtestation to which he was thus made a party. When 
she had finished her appeal to Heaven, she left him no 
leisure for farther hesitation, or for asking any explana- 
tion of her purpose ; but passing with the same ready 
transition as formerly, to the solicitous attentions of an 
anxious parent, overwhelmed him with questions concern- 
ing his residence in the Castle of Avenel, and the qual- 
ities and accomplishments he had acquired. 

“ It is well,” she said, when she had exhausted her in- 
quiries, “ my gay goss-hawk®hath been well trained, and 
will soar high ; but those who bred him will have cause 
to fear as well as to wonder at his flight. Let us now,” 
she said, “ to our morning meal, and care not though it 
be a scanty one. A few hours walk will bring us to more 
friendly quarters.” 

They broke their fast accordingly, on such fragments 
as remained of their yesterday’s provision, and immedi- 
ately set out on their farther journey. Magdalen Graeme 
led the way, with a firm and active step much beyond 


100 


THE ABBOT. 


her years, and Roland Graeme followed, pensive and 
anxious, and far from satisfied with the state of depen- 
dence to which he seemed again to be reduced. 

‘‘Am I forever,” he said to himself, “to be devoured with 
the desire of independence and free agency, and yet to 
be forever led on, by circumstances, to follow the will of 
others 


CHAPTER X. 

She dwelt unnoticed and alone, 

Beside the springs of Dove ; 

A maid whom there was none to praise, 

And very few to love. 

Wordsworth. ~ 

In the e^irse of their journey, the travellers spoke 
little to ea^ other. Magdalen" Graeme chanted from 
time to time, in a low voice, a part of some one of those 
beautiful old Latin hymns which belong to the Catholic 
service, muttered an Ave or a Credo, and so passed on, 
lost in devotional contemplation. The meditations of 
her grandson were more bent on mundane matters ; and 
many a time, as a moor-fowl arose from the heath, and 
shot along the moor, uttering his bold crow of defiance, 
he thought of the jolly Adam Woodcock, and his trusty 
goss-hawk ; or, as they passed a thicket where the low 
trees and bushes were intermingled with tall fern, furze, 
and broom, so as to form a thick and intricate cover, his 
dreams were of a roebuck, and a brace of gaze-hounds. 
But frequently his mind returned to the benevolent and 
kind mistress whom he had left behind him, offended 
justly, and unreconciled by any effort of his. 

My step would be lighter, he thought, and so would 
my heart, could I but have returned to see her for one 
instant, and to say. Lady, the orphan-boy was wild, bu* 
not ungrateful ! 


THE AliBOT. 


101 


Travelling in these divers moods, about the hour of 
noon they reached a small straggling village, in which, as 
usual, were seen one or two of those predominating tow- 
ers, or peel-houses, which, for reasons of defence else- 
where detailed, were at that time to be found in every 
Border hamlet. A brook flowed beside the village, and 
watered the valley in which it stood. There was also a 
mansion at the end of the village, and a little way sep- 
arated from it, much dilapidated, and in very bad order, 
but appearing to have been the abode of persons of some 
consideration. The situation was agreeable, being an 
angle formed by the stream, bearing three or-four large 
sycamore-trees, which were in full leaf, and served to re- 
lieve the dark appearance of the mansion, which was built 
of a deep-red stone. The house itself w^as a large one, 
but was now obviously too big for the inmates ; several 
windows were built up, especially those which opened 
from the lower story ; others were blockaded in a less 
substantial manner. The court before the door, which 
had once been defended with a species of lovV outer-wall, 
now ruinous, was paved, but the stones were completely 
covered with long grey nettles, thistles, and other weeds, 
which, shooting up betwixt the flags, had displaced many 
of them from their level. Even matters demanding more 
peremptory attention, had been left neglected, in a man- 
ner which argued sloth or poverty in the extreme. The 
stream, undermining a part of the bank near an angle of 
the ruinous wall, had brought it down, with a corner tur- 
ret, the ruins of which lay in the bed of the river. The 
current, interrupted by the ruins which it had overthrown, 
and turned yet nearer to the site of the tower, had great- 
ly enlarged the breach it had made, and was in the pro- 
cess of undermining the ground on which the house it- 
self stood, unless it were speedily protected by sufficient 
bulwarks. * 

All this attracted Roland GrEeme’s observation as they 
approached the dwelling by a winding path, which gave 
them at intervals, a view of it from different points. 

9 * VOL. I. 


102 


THE ABBOT. 


• “ If vve go to yonder house,” he said to his mother, 
“ I trust it is but for a short visit. It looks as if two rainy 
days from the north-west would send the whole Into the 
brook.” 

“ You see but with the eyes of the body,” said the old 
woman ; “ God will defend his own, though it be for- 
saken and despised of men. Better to dwell on the sand, 
under his law, than fly to the rock of human trust.” 

As she thus spoke, they entered the court before the 
old mansion, and Roland could observe that the front of 
it had formerly been considerably ornamented with carv- 
ed work, in the same dark-coloured freestone of which 
it was built. But all these ornaments had been broken 
down and destroyed, and only the shattered vestiges of 
niches and entablatures now strewed the place which they 
had once occupied. The larger entrance in front was 
walled up, but a little foot-path, which, from its appear- 
ance, seemed to be rarely trodden, led to a small wicket, 
defended by a door w^ell clenched with iron-headed nails, 
at which Magdalen Graeme knocked three times, pausing 
betwixt each knock, until she heard an answering tap 
from within. At the last knock, the wicket was opened 
by a pale thin female, who said, Benedicti qiii veniunt 
in nomine Domini.'' They entered, and the portress 
hastily shut behind them the wicket, and made fast the 
massive fastenings by which it was secured. 

The female led the way through a narrow entrance, 
into a vestibule of some extent, paved with stone, and 
having benches of the same solid material ranged around. 
At the upper end was an oriel window, but some of the 
intervals formed by the stone shafts and mullions w'ere 
blocked up, so that the apartment w^as very gloomy. 

Here they stopped, and the mistress of the mansion, 
for such she was, embraced Magdalen Graeme, and greet- 
ing her by the title of sister, kissed her, with much so- 
lemnity, on either side of the face. 

“ The blessing of Our Lady be upon you, my sister,” 
were her next words ; and they left no doubt upon Ro- 
land’s mind respecting the religion of their hostess, even 


THE ABBOT. 


103 


if he could have suspected his venerable and zealous 
guide of resting elsewhere than in the habitation of an 
orthodox Catholic. They spoke together a few words 
in private, during which he had leisure to remark more 
particularly the appearance of his grandmother’s friend. 

Her age might be betwixt fifty and sixty ; her looks 
had a mixture of melancholy and unhappiness, that bor- 
dered on discontent, and obscured the remains of beauty 
which age had still left on her features. Her dress was of 
the plainest and most ordinary description, of a dark colour, 
and, like Magdalen Graeme’s, something approaching to a 
religious habit. Strict neatness, and cleanliness of person, 
seemed to intimate, that if poor, she was not reduced to 
squalid or heart-broken distress, and that she was still 
sufficiently attached to life to retain a taste for its decen- 
cies, if not its elegances. Her manner, as well as her 
features and appearance, argued an original condition 
and education far above the meanness of her present ap- 
pearance. In short, the whole figure was such as to ex- 
cite the idea, “ That female must have had a history 
worth knowing.” Wliile Roland Graeme was making this 
very reflection, the whispers of the two females ceased, 
and the mistress of the mansion approaching him, looked 
on his face and person, with much attention, and, as it 
seemed, some interest. 

“ This, then,” she said, addressing his relative, “ is 
the child of thine unhappy daughter, sister Magdalen ; 
and him, the only shoot from your ancient tree, you are 
willing to devote to the Good Cause ?” 

“ Yes, by the rood,” answered Magdalen Grseme in 
her usual tone of resolved determination, “ to the good 
cause I devote him, flesh and fell, sinew and limb, body 
and soul!” 

“ Thou art a happy woman, sister Magdalen,” answer- 
ed her companion, “ that, lifted so high above human 
affection and human feeling, thou canst bind such a victim 
to the horns of the altar. Had I been called to make 
such sacrifice — to plunge a youth so young and fair into 


104 


THE ABBOT. 


the plots and blood-thirsty dealings of the time, not the 
patriarch Abraham, when he led Isaac up the mountain, 
would have rendered more melancholy obedience.” 

She then continued to look at Roland with a mournful 
aspect of compassion, until the intentness of her gaze 
occasioned his colour to rise, and he was about to move 
out of its influence, when he was stopped by his grand - 
mother with one hand, while with the other she divided 
the hair upon his forehead, which was now crimson will) 
bashfulness, while she added, with a mixture of proud 
affection and firm resolution, — “ Ay, look at him well, 
my sister, for on a fairer face thine eye never rested. 1 
too, when first I saw him, after a long separation felt as the 
worldly feel, and was half shaken in my purpose. But 
no wind can tear a leaf from the withered tree which has 
long been stripped of its foilage, and no mere human 
casualty can awaken the mortal feelings which have long 
slept in the calm of devotion.” 

While the old woman thus spoke, her manner gave the 
lie to her assertions, for the tears rose to her eyes while 
she added, “ But the fairer and the more spotless the 
victim, is it not, my sister, the more worthy of accept- 
ance She seemed glad to escape from the sensations 
which agitated her, and instantly added, “ He will escape, 
my sister — there will be a ram caught in the thicket, and 
the hand of our revolted brethren shall not be on the 
youthful Joseph. Heaven can defend its own rights, even 
by means of babes and sucklings, of women and beard- 
less boys.” 

“ Heaven hath left us,” said the other female ; “ for 
our sins and our fathers’ the succours of the blessed saints 
have abandoned this accursed land. We may win the 
crown of martyrdom, but not that of earthly triumph. 
One, too, whose prudence was at this deep crisis so in- 
dispensable, has been called to a better world. The Ab- 
bot Eustatius is no more.” 

“ May his soul have mercy!” said Magdalen Graeme, 
“ and may Heaven, too, have mercy upon us, who linger 
behind in this bloody land ! His loss is indeed a perilous 


THE ABBOT. 


105 


dIow to our enterprize ; for who remains behind possess- 
ing his far-fetched experience, his self-devoted zeal, his 
consummate wisdom, and his undaunted courage ! He 
hath fallen with the church’s standard in his hand, but 
God will raise up another to lift the blessed banner. 
Whom have the Chapter elected in his room f” 

“ It is rumoured no one of the few remaining brethren 
dare accept the office. The heretics have sworn that 
they will permit no future election, and will heavily punish 
any attempt to create a new Abbot of Saint Mary’s, 
Conjuraverunt inter se principes, dicentes, Projiciamus 
laqueos ejusP 

“ Q^uousque .Domwe/--” ejaculated Magdalen ; ‘‘tin's, 
my sister, were indeed a perilous and fatal breach in our 
band ; but I am firm in my belief, that another will arise 
in the place of him so untimely removed. Where is thy 
daughter Catherine f” 

“ In the parlour,” answered the matron, “ but: ” 

She looked at Roland Graeme, and muttered something 
in the ear of her friend. 

“ Fear it not,” answered Magdalen Graeme, “ it is 
both lawful and necessary — fear nothing from him — I 
would he were as well grounded in the faith by which 
alone comes safety, as he is free from thought, deed, or 
speech of villany. Therein is the heretics’ discipline to 
be commended, my sister, that they train up their youth 
in strong morality, and choke up every inlet to youthful 
folly.” 

“ It is but a cleansing of the outside of the cup,” an- 
swered her friend, “ a whitening of the sepulchre ; but 
he shall see Catherine, since you, sister, judge it safe and 
meet. — Follow; us, youth,” she added, and led the way 
from the apartment with her friend. These w^ere the 
only words which the matron had addressed to Roland 
Graeme, who obeyed them in silence. As they paced 
through several winding passages and waste apartments 
with a very slow step, the young page had leisure to make 
some reflections on his situation, — reflections of a nature 
which his ardent temper considered as specially disagree- 


106 


THE ABBOT. 


able. It seemed he had now got two mistresses, or tu- 
toresses, instead of one, both elderly women, and both, 
it would seem, in league to direct his motions according 
to their own pleasure, and for the accomplishment of 
plans to which he was no party. This, he thought, was 
too much ; arguing reasonably enough, that whatever 
right his grandmother and benefactress had to guide his 
motions, she was neither entitled to transfer her author- 
ity, or to divide it with another, who seemed to assume, 
without ceremony, the same tone of absolute command 
over him. 

“ But it shall not long continue thus,” thought Roland ; 
“ I will not be all my life the slave of a woman’s whistle, 
to go when she bids, and come when she calls. No, by 
Saint Andrew ! the hand that can hold the lance, is above 
the control of the distaff. I will leave them the slipp’d 
collar in their hands on the first opportunity, and let them 
execute their own devices by their own proper force. It 
may save them both from peril, for I guess what they 
meditate is not likely to prove either safe or easy— the 
Earl of Murray and his heresy are too well rooted to be 
grubbed up by two old w’omen.” 

As he thus resolved, they entered a low room, in which 
a third female was seated. This apartment was the first 
he had observed in the mansion which was furnished with 
movable seats, and with a wooden table, over which was 
laid a piece of tapestry. A carpet was spread on the 
floor, there was a grate in the chimney, and, in brief, 
the apartment had the air of being habitable and in- 
habited. 

But Roland’s eyes found better employment than to 
make observations on the accommodations of the cham- 
ber ; for this second female inhabitant of the mansion 
seemed something very different from anything he had 
yet seen there. At his first entry, she had greeted with 
a silent and low obeisance the two aged matrons, then 
glancing her eyes towards Roland, she. adjusted a veil 
which hung back over her shoulders, so as to bring it 
over her face ; an operation which she performed with 


THE ABBOT. 


107 


much modesty, but without either affected haste or em- 
barrassed timidity. 

During this manoeuvre, Roland had time to observe, 
that the face was that of a girl apparently not much past 
sixteen, and that the eyes were at once soft and brilliant. 
To these very favourable observations was added the 
certainty, that the fair o^bjectto whom they referred pos- 
sessed an excellent shape, bordering perhaps on emhon- 
point, and therefore rather that of a Hebe than of a Sylph, 
but beautifully formed, and shown to great advantage by 
the close jacket and petticoat, which she wore after a 
foreign fashion, the last not quite long enough absolutely 
to conceal a very pretty foot, which rested on a bar of the 
table at which she sat ; her round arms and taper fingers 
very busily employed in repairing the piece of tapestry 
which was spread on it, which exhibited several deplor- 
able fissures, enough to demand the utmost skill of the 
most expert seamstress. 

It is to be remarked, that it was by stolen glances that 
Roland Graeme contrived to ascertain these interesting 
particulars ; and he thought he could once or twice, not- 
withstanding the texture of the veil, detect the damsel in 
the act of taking similar cognizance of his own person. 
The matrons in the meanwhile, coiitinued their separate 
conversation, eyeing from time to time the young people, 
in a manner which left Roland in no doubt that they were 
the subject of their conversation. At length he distinct- 
ly heard Magdalen Graeme say these words : “ Nay, my 
sister, we must give them opportunity to speak together, 
and to become acquainted ; they must be personally 
known to each other, or how shall they be able to exe- 
cute whatthe^^re entrusted with?” 

It seemed’' as if the matron, not fully satisfied with her 
friend’s reasoning, contii^d to offer some objections ; 
but they were borne dowWby her more dictatorial friend. 

‘‘ It must be so,” she said, “ my dear sister ; let us 
therefore go forth on the balcony, to finish our conversa- 
tion. — And do you,” she added, addressing Roland and the 
girl, “ become acquainted with each other.” 


108 


THE ABBOT. 


With this she stepped up to the young woman, and, 
raising her veil, discovered features, which, whatever 
might be their ordinary complexion, were now covered 
with a universal blush. 

‘‘ Licitum sit^^ said Magdalen, looking at the other 
matron. 

“ Vix licitum^’^ replied the other, with reluctant and 
hesitating acquiescence ; and again adjusting the veil of 
the blushing girl, she dropped it so as to shade, though 
not to conceal her countenance, and whispered to her in 
a tone loud enough for the page to hear, “ Remember, 
Catherine, who thou art, and for what destined.” 

The matron then retreated with Magdalen Graeme 
through one of the casements of the apartment, that 
opened on a large broad balcony, which, with its ponder- 
ous balustrade, had once run along the whole south front 
of the building which faced the brook, and formed a 
pleasant and commodious walk in the open air. It was 
now in some places deprived of the balustrade, in others 
broken and narrowed ; but, ruinous as it was, could still 
be used as a pleasant promenade. Here then walked 
the two ancient dames, busied in their private conversa- 
tion ; yet not so much so, but that Roland could observe 
the matrons, as their thin forms dark ned the casement 
in passing or repassing before it, dart a glance into the 
apartment to see how matters were going on there. 


THE ABBOT. 


109 


CHAPTER XL 


Life hath its May, and it is mirthful then : 

The woods are vocal, and the flowers all odour ; 

Its very blast has mirth in't, — and the maidens, 

The while they doii their cloaks to skreen their kirtles, 
Laugh at the rain that wets them. 

Old Play, 


Catherine was at the happy age of innocence and 
tuoyancy of spirit, when, after the first moment of em- 
barrassment was over, a situation of awkwardness like 
that in which she was suddenly left to make acquaintance 
with a handsome youth, not even known to her by name, 
struck her, in spite of herself, in a ludicrous point of 
view. She bent her beautiful eyes upon the work with 
which she was busied, and with infinite gravity sat out 
the two first turns of the matrons upon the balcony ; but 
then glancing her deep blue eye a little towards Roland, 
and observing the embarrassment under which he labour- 
ed, now shifting on his chair, and now dangling his cap, 
the whole man evincing t^iat he was perfectly at a loss 
how to open the conversation, she could keep her com- 
posure no longer, but after a vain struggle broke out into 
a sincere, though a very involuntary, fit of laughing, so 
richly accompanied by the laughter of her merry eyes, 
which actually glanced through the tears which the effort 
filled them with, and by the waving of her rich' tresses, 
that the goddess of smiles herself never looked more 
lovely than Catherine at that moment. A court page 
would; not have left her long alone in her mirth ; but Ro- 
land was country-bred, and, besides, having some jeal- 
ousy, as well as bashfulness, he took it into his head that 
he was himself. the object of her inextinguishable laugh- 
ter. His endeavours to sympathize with Catherine, 
therefore, could carry him no farther than a forced 
10 VOL. I. 


no 


THE ABBOT. 


giggle, which had more of displeasure than of mirth in 
it, and which so much enhanced that of the girl, that it 
seemed to render it impossible for her ever to bring her 
laughter to an ^nd, with whatever anxious pains she la- 
boured to do so. For every one has felt that when a 
paroxysm of laughter has seized him, at a misbecoming 
time and place, the efforts which he makes to suppress it, 
nay, the very sense of the impropriety of giving way to 
it, tend only to augment and prolong the irresistible 
impulse. 

It was undoubtedly lucky for Catherine, as well as for 
Roland, that the latter did not share in the excessive 
mirth of the former. For seated as she was, with her 
back to the casement, Catherine could easily escape 
the observation of the two matrons during the course of 
their promenade ; whereas Graeme was so placed, with 
his side to the window, that his mirth, had he shared that 
of his con)panion, would have been instantly visible, and 
could not have failed to give offence to the personages 
in question. He sat, however, with some impatience, 
until Catherine had exhausted either her power or her 
desire of laughing, and was returning with good grace to 
the exercise of her needle, and then he observed with 
some dryness, that “ there s^med no great occasion to 
ecommend to them to improve their acquaintance, as it 
seemed that they were already » tolerably familiar.” 

Catherine had an extreme desire to set off upon a 
fresh score, but she repressed it strongly, and fixing her 
eyes on her work, replied by asking his pardon, and 
promising to avoid future offence. 

Roland had sense enough to feel that an air of offend- 
ed dignity was very much misplaced, and that it was 
with a very different bearing he ought to meet th^eep 
blue eyes which had borne such a hearty burden in the 
laughing scene. He tried, therefore, to extricate him- 
self as well as he could from his blunder,^ by assuming a 
tone of corresponding gaiety, and requesting to know of 
the nymph, “ how^ it was her pleasure that they should 


THE ABBOT. 


Ill 


proceed in improving the acquaintance which had com- 
menced so merrily.” 

“ That,” she said, “ you must yourself discover ; 
perhaps 1 have gone a step too far in opening our inter- 
view.” 

“ Suppose,” said Roland Grseme, “ we should begin 
as in a tale-book, by asking each other’s names and his- 
tories.” 

“ It is right well imagined,” said Catherine, “ and 
shows an argute judgment. Do you begin, and I will 
listen, and only put in a question or two at the dark parts 
of the story. Come, unfold then your name and history, 
my new acquaintance.” 

“ I am called Roland Grajme, and that tall old woman 
is rny grandmother.” 

“ And your tutoress?— good. Who are your parents .^” 

‘‘ They are both dead,” replied Roland. 

“ Ay, but who were they f you had parents, I pre- 
sume 

“ I suppose so,” said Roland, “ but I have never 
been able to learn much of their history. My father was 
a Scottish knight, who died gallantly in his stirrups — my 
mother was a Graeme of Heather-Gill, in the Debate- 
able Land — most of her J^mily were killed when the De- 
bateable country was burned by the Lord Maxwell and 
Berries of Caerlaverock.^’ 

“ Is it long ago said the damsel. 

“ Before I was born,” answered the page. 

“ That must be a great while since,” said she, shak- 
ing her head gravely ; ‘‘ look you, I cannot weep for 
them.” 

“ It needs not,” said the youth, ‘‘ they fell with hon- 
our.’^ 

“ So much for your lineage, fair sir,” replied his com- 
panion, “ of whom I like the living specimen (a glance 
at the casement) far less than those that are dead. 
Your much honoured grandmother looks as if she could 
make one weep in sad earnest. And now, fair sir, for 
your own person — if you tell not the tale faster, it will 


112 


THE ABBOT. 


be cut short in the middle ; Mother Bridget pauses long- 
er and longer every time she passes the window, and 
with her there is as little mirth as in the grave of your 
ancestors.” 

“ My tale is soon told — I was introduced into the 
Castle of Avenel to be page to the lady of the mansion.” 

“ She is 9 strict Huguenot, is she not ?” said the 
maiden. 

“ As strict as Calvin himself. But my grandmother 
can play the puritan when it suits her purpose, and she 
had some plan of her own for quartering me in the Cas- 
tle — it would have failed, however, after we had remain- 
ed several weeks at the hamlet, but for an unexpected 
master of ceremonies ” 

“ And who was that said the girl. 

“ A large black dog. Wolf by name, who brought me 
into the castle one day in his mouth, like a hurt wild- 
duck, and presented me to the lady.” 

“ A most respectable introduction truly,” said Cath- 
erine, “ and w'hat might you learn at this same castle ? 
I love dearly to know what my acquaintances can do at 
need,” 

“ To fly a hawk, hollow to a hound, back a horse, 
and wield lance, bow, and brajjd.” ' 

“ And to boast of all this when you have learned it,” 
said Catherine, “ which, in France at least, is the surest 
accomplishment of a page. But proceed, fair sir; how 
came your Huguenot lord and your no less Huguenot 
lady to receive and keep in the family so perilous a per- 
son as a Catholic page 

“ Because they knew not that part of my history, 
which from infancy 1 had been taught to keep secret — and 
because my grand-dame’s former zealous attendar^e on 
their heretic chaplain, had laid all this suspicion to sleep, 
most fair Callipolis,” said the page; and in so saying, he 
edged his chair towards the seat of the fair querist. 

“ Nay, but keep your distance, most gallant sir,” an- 
swered the blue-eyed maiden, “ for, unless 1 greatly 
mistake, these reverend ladies will soon interrupt our 


THE AHEOT. 


113 


amicable conference, if the acquaintance they recom- 
mend shall seem to proceed beyond a certain point — so, 
fair sir, be pleased to abide by your station, and reply to 
my questions. — By what achievements did you prove 
the qualities of a page, which you had thus happily ac- 
quired 

Roland, who began to enter into the tone and spirit of 
the damsel’s conversation, replied to her with becoming 
spirit. 

“ In no feat, fair gentlewoman, was I found inexpert, 
wherein there was mischief implied. 1 shot swans, hunt- 
ed cats, frightened serving-women, chased the deer, and 
robbed the orchard. 1 say nothing of tormenting the 
chaplain in various ways, for that was my duty as a good 
Catholic.” 

“ Now, as I am a gentlewoman,” said Catherine, “ I 
think these heretics have done Catholic penance in en- 
tertaining so all-accomplished a serving-man ! And what, 
fair sir, might have been the unhappy event which de- 
prived them of an inmate altogether so estimable .^” 

“ Truly, fair gentlewoman,” answered the youth, 
“ your real proverb says that the longest lane will have 
a turning, and mine was more — it was, in fine, a turning 
off.” 

‘‘ Good !” said the merry young maiden, “ it is an 
apt play on the word. And what occasion was taken for 
so important a catastrophe ^ — Nay, start not for my 
learning, I do know the schools — in plain phrase, why 
were you sent from service .^” 

The page shrugged his shoulders while he replied, — 

“ A short tale is soon told — and a short horse soon 
curried. — I made the falconer’s boy taste of my switch 
— the falconer threatened to make me4)rook his cudgel 
— he is a kindly clown as well as a stout, and I would 
rather have been cudgelled by him than any man in 
Christendom to choose — but I knew not his qualities at 
that time — so 1 threatened to make him brook the stab, 
and my lady made me brook the ‘‘ Begone so adieu to 
JO* VOL. I. 


114 


THE ABIJOT. 


the page’s office and the fair Castle of Avenel. — I had 
not travelled far before I met my venerable parent — And 
so tell your tale, fair gentlewoman, for mine is done.” 

“ A happy grandmother,” said the maiden, “ who had 
the luck to find the stray page just when his mistress had 
slipped his leash, and a most lucky page that has jumped 
at once from a page to an old lady’s gentleman-usher !” 

“ All this is nothing of your history,” answered Ro- 
land Graeme, who began to be much interested in the 
congenial vivacity of this facetious young gentlewoman, 
— “ tale for tale is fellow-traveller’s justice.” 

“ Wait till we are fellow-travellers then,” replied 
Catherine. 

“ Nay, you escape me not so,” said the page ; “ if 
you deal not justly by me, I will call out to Dame 
Bridget, or whatever your dame be called and proclaim 
you for a cheat.” 

“ You shall not need,” answered the maiden — “ my 
history is the counterpart of your own ; the same words 
might almost serve, change but dress and name. I am 
called Catherine Seyton, and I also am an orphan.” 

“ Have your parents been long dead 

“ That is the only question,” said she, throwing down 
her fine eyes with a sudden expression of sorrow, “ that 
is the only question I cannot laugh at.” 

“ And Dame Bridget is your grandmother 

The sudden cloud passed away like that which crosses 
for an instant the summer sun, and she answered, with 
her usual lively expression, “ Worse by twenty degrees 
— Dame Bridget is my maiden aunt.” 

“ Over gods forbode !” said Roland — “ alas ! that 
you have such a tale to tell ! and what horror comes 
next 

“ Your own Mistory exactly. I was taken upon trial 
for service” 

“ And turned off for pinching the duenna, or affront- 
ing my lady’s waiting-woman 

“ Nay, our history varies there,” said the damsel — 
“ Our mistress broke up house or had her house broke 


THE ABBOT. 


115 


up, which is the same thing, and I am a free woman of 
the forest.” 

And I am as glad of it as if any one had lined my 
doublet with cloth of gold,” said the youth. 

“ I thank you for your mirth,” said she, “ but the 
matter is not likely to concern you.” 

“ Nay, but go on,” said the page, “ for you will bo 
presently interrupted ; the two good dames have been 
soaring yonder on the balcony, like two old hooded crows', 
and their croak grows hoarser as night comes on ; they 
will wing to roost presently. — This mistress of yours, 
fair gentlewoman, who was she, in God’s name .^” 

“ O, she has a fair name in the world,” replied Cath- 
erine Seyton. “ Few ladies kept a fairer house, or held 
more gentlewomen in her household ; my aunt Bridget 
was one of her housekeepers. We never saw our mis- 
tress’s blessed face to be sure, but we heard enough of 
her ; were up early and down late, and were kept to long 
prayers and light food.” 

‘‘ Out upon the penurious old beldame !” said the page. 

“For Heaven’s sake, blaspheme not !” said the girl, 
with an expression of fear. — “ God, pardon us both ! 1 

meant no harm. I speak of our blessed Saint Cathe- 
rine of Sienna ! — May God forgive me that I spoke so 
lightly, and made you do a great sin and a great blas- 
phemy ! This was her nunnery, in which there were 
twelve nuns and an abbess. My aunt was the abbess 
till the heretics turned all adrift.” 

“ And where are your companions asked the youth. 

“ With the last year’s snow,” answered the maiden ; 

“ east, north, south, and west — some to France, some to 
Flanders, some, I fear. Into the world and its pleasures. 
We have got permission to remain, or rather our remain- 
ing has been connived at, for my aunt ha^ great relations 
among the Kerrs, and they have threatened a death-feud 
if any one touches us ; and bow and spear are the best 
warrants in these times.” ' 


J16 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Nay, then, you sit under a sure shadow,” said the 
youth ; “ and 1 suppose you wept yourself blind when 
Saint Catherine broke up housekeeping, before you had 
taken arles^in her service ?” 

“ Hush ! for Heaven’s sake,” said the damsel, cross- 
ing herself, “ no more of that! But I have not quite 
cried my eyes out,” said she, turning them upon him, 
and instantly again bending them upon her work. It was 
one of those glances which would require the threefold 
plate of brass around the heart, more than it is needed 
by the mariners, to whom Horace recommends it. Our 
youthful page had no defence whatever to offer. 

“ What say you, Catherine,” he said, “ if we two, 
thus strangely turned out of service at the same time, 
should give our two most venerable duennas the torch to 
hold, while we walk a merry measure with each other 
over the floor of this weary world 

“ A goodly proposal, truly,” said Catherine, “ and 
w'orthy the mad-cap brain of a discarded page 1 — And 
what shifts does your worship propose we should live by f 
— by singing ballads, cutting purses, or swaggering on 
the highway ^ for t^here, 1 think, you would find your 
most productive exchequer.” 

“ Choose, you proud peat!” said the page, drawing 
off in huge disdain at the calm and unembarrassed ridi- 
cule with which his wild proposal was received. And 
as he spoke the words, the casement was again darkened 
by the forms of the matrons — it opened, and admitted 
Magdalen Graeme and the Mother Abbess, so we must 
now style her, into the apartment. 


THE ABBOT. 


in 


CHAPTER Xn. 

Nay, hear me, brother — I am elder, wiser, 

And holier than thou. And age, and wisdom. 

And holiness, have peremptory claims. 

And will be listened to. 

Old Platj. 

When the matrons re-entered, and put an end to the 
conversation which we have detailed in the last chapter, 
Dame Magdalen Graeme thus addressed her grandson 
and his pretty companion : “ Have you spoke together, 
my children ^ — Have you become known to each other 
as fellow-travellers on the same dark and dubious road, 
whom chance hath brought together, and who study to 
learn the tempers and dispositions of those by whom 
their perils are to be shared 

It was seldom the light-hearted Catherine could sup- 
press a jest, so that she often spoke when she would have 
acted more wisely in holding her peace. 

“ Your grandson admires the journey which you pro- 
pose so very greatly, that he was even now preparing for 
setting out upon it instantly.” 

“ This is to be too forward, Roland,” said the dame, 
addressing him, “ as yesterday you were over slack — the 
just mean lies in obedience, which both waits for the 
signal to start, and obeys it when given. — But once again, 
my children, have you so perused each other’s counte- 
nances, that when you meet, in whatever disguise the 
times may impose upon you, you may recognize each in 
the other the secret agent of the mighty work in which 
you are to be leagued ^ — Look at each other, know each 
line and lineament of each other’s countenance. Learn 
to distinguish by the step, by the sound of the voice, by 
the motion of the hand, by the glance of the eye, the 
partner whom Heaven hath sent to aid in working its 
Y^rjU. — Wilt thou know that maiden, whensoever or 


118 


THE ABBOT. 


wheresoever you shall again meet her, my Roland 
Graeme ?” 

As readily as truly did Roland answer in the affirma- 
tive. “ And thou, my daughter, wilt thou again remem- 
ber the features of this youth 

“ Truly, mother,” replied Catherine Seyton, “ I have 
not seen so many men of late, that 1 should immediate- 
ly forget your grandson, though I mark not much about 
him that is deserving of special remembrance.” 

“ Join hands then, my children,” said Magdalen 
Graeme ; but, in saying so, was interrupted by her com- 
panion, whose conventual prejudices had been gradually 
giving her more and more uneasiness, and who could re- 
main acquiescent no longer. 

“ Nay, my good sister, you forget,” said she to Mag- 
dalen, “ Catherine is the betrothed bride of Heaven — 
these intimacies cannot be.” 

“ It is in the cause of Heaven that T command them 
to embrace,” said Magdalen, with the full force of her 
powerful voice ; “ the end, sister, sanctifies the means 
w'e must use.” 

“ They call me Lady Abbess, or Mother at the least 
who address me,” said Dame Bridget, drawing herself 
up, as if offended at her friend’s authoritative manner — 
“ the Lady of Heathergill forgets that she speaks to the 
Abbess of St. Catherine.” 

“ When 1 was what you call me,” said Magdalen, 
“ you indeed were the Abbess of St. Catherine ; but 
both names are now gone, with all the rank that the 
world and that the church gave to them ; and we are 
now, to the eye of human judgment, two poor, despised, 
oppressed women, dragging our dishonoured old age to 
a humble grave. But what are we in the eye of Hea- 
ven f — Ministers, sent forth to work His will, — in whose 
weakness the strength of the church shall be manifested 
— before whom shall be humbled the wisdom of Muiray, 
and the dark strength of Morion. — And to such wouldst 
thou apply the narrow rules of thy cloistered seclusion f 
or, hast thou forgotten the order which I showed thee 


THE ABBOT. 


119 


from thy Superior, subjecting thee to me in these mat- 
ters f” 

“ On thy head, then, be the scandal and the sin,’’ said 
the Abbess, sullenly. 

“ On mine be they both,” said Magdalen. “ I say, 
embrace each other, my children.” 

But Catherine, aware, perhaps, how the dispute was 
likely to terminate, had escaped from the apartment, and 
so disappointed the grandson, at least as much as the old 
matron. 

“ She is gone,” said the Abbess, “ to provide some 
little refreshment. But it will have little savour to those 
who dwell in the world ; for I, at least, cannot dispense 
with the rules to which 1 am vowed, because it is the 
will of wicked men to break down the sanctuary in which 
they wont to be observed.” 

“ It is well, my sister,” replied Magdalen, “ to pay 
each even the smallest tythes of mint and cummin which 
the church demands, and 1 blame not thy scrupulous ob- 
servance of the rules of thine order. But they were 
established by the church, and for the church’s benefit : 
and reason it is that they should give way when the sal- 
vation of the church herself is at stake.” 

The Abbess made no reply. 

One more acquainted with human nature than the in- 
experienced page, might have found amusement in com- 
paring the different kinds of fanaticism which these two 
females exhibited. 

The Abbess — timid, narrow-minded, and discontent- 
ed, clung to ancient usages and pretensions which were 
ended by the Reformation ; and was in adversity, as she 
had been in prosperity, scrupulous, weak-spirited, and 
bigotted ; while the fiery and more lofty spirit of her 
coinpanion suggested a wider field of effort, and would 
not be limited by ordinary rules in the extraordinary 
schemes which were suggested by her bold and irregular 
imagination. But Roland Graeme, instead of tracing 
these peculiarities of character in the two old dames, 
only waited with great anxiety for the return of Cathe- 


120 


THE AEEOT. 


rine, expecting probably that the proposal of the frater- 
nal embrace would be renewed, as his grandmother 
seemed disposed to carry matters with a high hand. 

His expectations, or hopes, if w^e may call them so, 
were, however, disappointed ; for, when Catherine re- 
entered on the summons of the Abbess, and placed on 
the table an earthen pitcher of water, and four wooden 
platters, with cups of the same materials, the Dame of 
Heathergill, satisfied wdth the arbitrary mode in which 
she had borne down the opposition of the Abbess, pur- 
sued her victory no farther — a moderation for which her 
grandson, in his heart, returned her but slender thanks. 

In the meanwhile, Catherine continued to place upon 
the table the slender preparations for the meal of a re- 
cluse, which consisted almost entirely of colewort, boiled 
and served up in a wooden platter, having no better sea- 
soning than a little salt, and no better accompaniment 
than some coarse barley-bread in very moderate quanti- 
ty. The water-pitcher, already mentioned, furnished the 
only beverage. After a Latin grace, delivered by the 
Abbess, the guests sat down to their spare entertainment. 
The simplicity of the fare appeared to produce no dis- 
taste in the females, who ate of it moderately, but with 
the usual appearance of appetite. But Roland Graeme 
had been used to bettei'cheer. Sir Halbert Glendinning, 
who affected even an unusual degree of nobleness in his 
housekeeping, maintained it in a style oC genial hospital- 
ity, which rivalled that of the Northern Barons of Eng- 
land. He might think, perhaps, that by doing so, he 
acted yet more completely the part for which he was 
born — that of a great Baron and a leader. Two 
bullocks, and six sheep weekly were the allowance when 
the Baron was at home, and tlie number was not greatly di- 
minished during his absence. A boll of malt was weekly 
brewed into ale, which was used by the household at dis- 
cretion. Bread was baked in proportion for the consump- 
tion of his domestics and retainers ; and in this scene of 
plenty had Roland Graeme now lived for several years. 
formed a bad introduction to lukewarm greens and spring 


THE ABBOT. 


121 


water ; and probably his countenance indicated some 
sense of the difference, for the Abbess observed, “ It 
would seem, my son, that the tables of the heretic Baron, 
whom you have so long followed, are more daintily fur- 
nished than those of the suffering daughters of the 
church, and yet, not upon the most solemn nights of fes- 
tival, when the nuns were permitted to eat their portion 
at mine own table, did 1 consider the cates which were 
then served up, as half so delicious as these vegetables 
and this water on which 1 prefer to feed, rather than do 
aught which may derogate from the strictness of my 
vow. It shall never be said that the mistress of this 
house made it a house of feasting, when days of dark- 
ness and of affliction were hanging over the Holy Church, 
of which I am an unworthy member.” 

“ Well hast thou said, my sister,” replied Magdalen 
Graeme ; “ but now it is not only time to suffer in the 
good cause, but to act in it. And since our pilgrim’s 
meal is finished, let us go apart to prepare for our jour- 
ney of to-morrow, and to advise on the manner in which 
these children shall be employed, and what measures we 
can adopt to supply their thoughtlessness and lack of 
discretion.” 

Notwithstanding his indifferent cheer, the heart of 
Roland Graeme bounded high at this proposal, which he 
doubted not would lead to another tete-d-tete betwixt 
him and the pretty novice. But he was mistaken. 
Catherine, it would seem, had no mind so far to indulge 
him; for, moved either by delicacy or caprice, or some 
of those indescribable shades betwixt the one and the 
other, with which women love to teaze, and at the same 
time to captivate the ruder sex, she reminded the Ab- 
bess that it was necessary she should retire for an hour 
before vespers ; and, receiving the ready and approving 
nod of her Superior, she arose to withdraw. But, be- 
fore leaving the apartment, she made obeisance to the 
matrons, bending herself till her hands touched her 
knees, and then made a lesser reverence to Roland, 
1 1 VOL. I. 


122 


THE ABBOT. 


which consisted in a slight hend of the body, and gentle 
depression of the head. This she performed very de- 
murely ; but the parly on whom the salutation was con- 
ferred, thought he could discern in her manner an arch 
and mischievous exultation over his secret disappoint- 
ment. — The devil take the saucy girl, he thought in his 
heart, though the presence of the Abbess should have 
repressed all such profane imaginations, — she is as hard- 
hearted as the laughing hyaena that the story-books tell of 
, — she has a mind that 1 shall not forget her this night at 
least. 

The matrons now retired also, giving the page to un- 
derstand that he was on no account to stir from the con- 
vent, or to show himself at the windows, the Abbess 
assigning as a reason, the readiness with which the 
rude heretics caught at every occasion of scandalizing 
the religious orders. 

“ This is worse than the rigour of Mr. Henry Warden 
himself,” said the page, when he was left alone ; “ for, 
to do liim justice, however strict in requiring the most 
rigid attention during the time of his homilies, he left us 
to the freedom of our own wills afterwards — ay, and 
would take a share in our pastimes too, if he thought 
them entirely innocent. But these old women are ut- 
terly wrapt up in gloom, mystery, and self-denial. — Well 
then, if 1 must neither stir out of the gate nor look out 
at window, I will at least see what the inside of the house 
contains that may help to pass away one’s lime — perad- 
veniure, I may light on that blue-eyed laugher in some 
corner or other.” 

Going, therefore, out of the chamber by the entrance 
opposite to that through which the two matrons had de- 
pa rted, (for it may be readily supposed that he had no desire 
to intrude on their privacy,)he wandered from one cham- 
ber to another, through the deserted edifice, seeking, with 
boyish eagerness, some source of interest or amusement. 
Here he passed through a long gallery, opening on either 
hand into the little cells of the nuns, all deserted, and 


THE ABBOT. 


123 


deprived of the few trifling articles of furniture which 
the rules of the order admitted. 

“The birds are flown,” thought the page; ‘‘but whether 
they will find themselves worse off in the open air than 
in these damp narrow cages, I leave my Lady Abbess 
and my venerable relative to settle betwixt them. I 
think the wild young lark whom they have left behind 
them, would like best to sing under God’s free sky.” 

A winding stair, strait and narrow, as if to remind 
the nuns of their duties of fast and maceration, led down 
to a lower suit of apartments, which occupied the ground 
story of the house. These rooms were even more ru- 
inous than those which he had left ; for, having encoun- 
tered the first fury of the assailants by whom the nunne- 
ry had been wasted, the windows had been dashed in, 
the doors broken down, and even the partitions betwixt 
the apartments, in some places, destroyed. As he thus 
stalked from desolation to desolation, and began to think 
of returning from so uninteresting a research to the 
chamber which he had left, he was surprised to hear the 
low of a cow very close to him. The sound was so un- 
expected at the time and place, that Roland GraBme 
started as if it had been the voice of a lion, and laid his 
hand on his dagger, while at the same moment the light 
and lovely form of Catherine Seyton presented itself at 
the door of the apartment from which the sound had 
issued. 

“ Good even to you, valiant champion !” said she ; 
“ since the days of Guy of Warwick, never was one more 
worthy to encounter a dun cow.” 

“ Cow said Roland Graeme, “ by my faith, I 
thought it had been the devil that roared so near me — 
who ever heard of a convent containing a cow-house 

“ Cow and calf may come hither now,” answered 
Catherin'e, “ for we have no means to keep out either. 
But 1 advise you, kind sir, to return to the place from 
whence you came.” 

“ Not till I see your charge, fair sister,” answered 


124 


THE ABBOT. 


Roland, and made his way into the apartment in spite of 
the half serious, half laughing remonstrances of the girl. 

The poor solitary cow, now the only severe recluse 
within the nunnery, was quartered in a spacious cham- 
her, which had once been the refectory ot the convent. 
The roof was graced with groined arches, and the wall 
with niches, from which the images had been pulled 
down. These remnants of architectural ornaments wei e 
strangely contrasted with the rude crib constructed for 
the cow in one corner of the apartment, and the stack of 
fodder which was piled beside it for her food.^® 

“ By my faith,” said the page, “ Crombie is more 
lordly lodged than any one here!” 

“ You had best remain with her,” said Catherine, 
“ and supply by your filial attentions the offspring she 
has had the ill luck to lose.” 

“ I will remain at least, to help you to prepare her 
night’s lair, pretty Catherine,” said Roland, seizing up- 
on a pitchfork. 

“ By no means,” said Catherine ; “ for, besides that 
you know not in the least how to do her that service, you 
will bring a chiding rny way, and I get enough of that in 
the regular course of things.” 

“ What ! for accepting my assistance ?” said the 
page, — “ for accepting my assistance, who am to be your 
confederate in some deep matter of import? That were 
altogether unreasonable — and, now 1 think on it, tell me if 
you can, what is this mighty em prize, to which I am des- 
tined ?” 

“ Robbing a bird’s nest, I should suppose,” said Cath- 
erine, “ considering the champion whom they have se- 
lected.” 

“ By my faith,” said the youth, “ and he that has tak- 
en a falcoi/s nest in the Scaurs of Polmoodie, has done 
something to brag of, rny fair sister. — But that is all over 
now — a murrain on the nest, and the eyasses and their 
food, washed or unwashed, for it was all anon of cram- 
ming these worthless kites that I was sent upon my pres- 


TUB ABBOT. 


125 


ent travels. Save that 1 have met with you, pretty sister, 
J could eat my dagger-hilt for vexation at my own folly. 
But, as we are to be fellow-travellers” 

“ Fellow-labourers ! not fellow-travellers !” answered 
the girl ; “ for to your comfort be it known, that the Lady 
Abbess and I set out earlier than you and your respect- 
ed relative to-morrow, and that 1 partly endure your com- 
pany at present, because it may be long ere we meet again.” 

“ By Saint Andrew, but it shall not though,” answer- 
ed Roland ; 1 will not hunt at all unless we are to hunt 

in couples.” 

“ I suspect, in that and in other points, we must do as 
we are bid,” replied the young lady. — “ But hark ! I 
hear my aunt’s voice.” 

The old lady entered in good earnest, and darted a 
severe glance at her niece, wdiile Roland had the ready 
wit to busy himself about the halter of the cow. 

“ The young gentleman,” said Catherine gravely, “ is 
helping me to tie the cow up faster to her stake, fori find 
that last night when she put her head out of wdndovv and 
lowed, she alarmed the whole village ; and we shall be 
suspected of sorcery among the heretics if they do not 
discover the cause of the apparition, or lose our cow if 
they do.” 

“ Relieve yourself of that fear,” said the Abbess, 
somewhat ironically ; “ the person to whom she is now 
sold, comes for the animal presently.” 

“ Good-night then, my poor companion,” said Cath- 
erine, patting the animal’s shoulders ; “ I hope thou hast 
fallen into kind hands, for my happiest hours of late have 
been spent in tending thee — I would I had been born to 
no better task!” 

“ Now, out upon thee, mean-spirited wench !” said 
the Abbess ; “ is that a speech worthy of fhe name of 
Seyton, or of the mouth of a sister of this house, tread- 
ing the path of election — and to be spoken before a 
stranger youth too ! — Go to my oratory, minion — there 
read your Hours till I come thither, when I will read you 
11 * VOL. I. 


126 


TIIC ABBOT. 


such a lecture as shall make you prize the blessings which 
you possess.” 

Catherine was about to withdraw in silence, casting a 
half sorrowful, half comic, glance at Roland Graeme, 
which seemed to say — “ You see to what your untimely 
visit has exposed me,” when, suddenly changing her 
mind, she came forward to the page, and extended her 
hand as she bid him good-evening. Their palms had 
pressed each other ere the astonished matron could inter- 
fere, and Catherine had time to say — “ Forgive me, 
mother ; it is long since we have seen a face that looked 
with kindness on us. Since these disorders have broken 
up our peaceful retreat, all has been gloom and maligni- 
ty. I bid this youth kindly farewell, because he has come 
hither in kindness, and because the odds are great, that 
we may never again meet in this world. I guess better 
than he, that the schemes on which you are rushing are 
too mighty for your management, and that you are now 
setting the stone a-rolling which must surely crush you 
in its descent. I bid farewell,” she added, “ to my fel- 
low-victim !” 

This was spoken with a tone of deep and serious feel- 
ing, altogether different from the usual levity of Cath- 
erine’s manner, and plainly showed, that beneath the 
giddiness of extreme youth and total inexperience, there 
lurked in her bosom a deeper power of sense and feeling, 
than her conduct had hitherto expressed. 

The Abbess remained a moment silent after she had 
left the room. The proposed rebuke died on her tongue, 
and she appeared struck with the deep and foreboding 
tone in which her niece had spoken her good-even. She 
led the way in silence to the apartment which they had 
formerly occupied, and where there was prepared a small 
refection, as the Abbess termed it, consisting of milk and 
barley-bread. Magdalen Graeme, summoned to take 
share in this collation, appeared from an adjoining apart- 
ment, but Catherine was seen no. more. There was little 
said during the hasty meal, and after it was finished, Ro- 


THE ABBOT. 


127 


land Graeme was dismissed to the nearest cell, where 
some preparations had been made for his repose. 

The strange circumstances in which he found himself, 
had their usual effect in preventing slumber from hastily 
descending on him ; and he could distinctly hear, by a 
low but earnest murmuring, in the apartment which he 
had left, that the matrons continued in deep consultation 
to a late hour. As they separated, he heard the Abbess 
distinctly express herself thus : “ In a word, my sister, 
I venerate your character and the authority with which 
my Superiors have invested you ; yet it seems to me, 
that, ere entering on this perilous course, we should con- 
sult some of the Fathers of the Church.” 

“ And how and where are we to find a faithful Bishop 
or Abbot at whom to ask counsel ? The faithful Eusta- 
tius is no more — he is withdrawn from a world of evil, 
and from the tyranny of heretics. May HeavenandOur 
Ladyassoilzie him of his sins, and abridge the penance 
of his mortal infirmities ! — Where shall we find another, 
with whom to take counsel 

“ Heaven will provide for the Church,” said the Ab- 
oess ; “ and the faithful fathers who yet are suffered to 
remain in the house of Kennaquhair, will proceed to elect 
an Abbot. They will not suffer the staff to fall down, 
or the mitre to be unfilled, for the threats of heresy.” 

“ That will 1 learn to-morrow,” said Magdalen Graeme; 
‘‘ yet who now takes the office of an hour, save to par- 
take with the spoilers in their work of plunder?— to-mor- 
row will tell us if one of the thousand saints who are 
sprung from the House of Saint Mary’s continues to look 
down on it in its misery. — Farewell, my sister, we meet 
at Edinburgh.” 

“ Benedicite !” answered the Abbess, and they parted. 

To Kennaquhair and to Edinburgh vve bend our way, 
thought Roland Graeme. That information have 1 pur- 
chased by a sleepless hour — it suits well with my pur- 
pose. At Kennaquhair I shall see Father Ambrose ; — 
at Edinburgh I shall find the means of shaping my own 
course through this bustling world, without burdening 


THE ABliOT. 


l'^8 

my affectionate relation — at Edinburgh, too, I shall see 
again the witching novice, with her blue eyes and her 
provoking smile. — He fell asleep, and it was to dream of 
Catherine Seyton. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

What, Dagon up again ! I thought we had hurl'd him 
Down on the threshold never more to rise. 

Bring wedge and axe ; and, neighbours, lend your hands, 

And rive the idol into winter faggots ! 

Athelslane, or the Converted Dane, 

Roland Graime slept long and sound, and the sun 
was high over the horizon, when the voice of his com- 
panion summoned him to resume their pilgrimage ; and 
when, hastily arranging his dress, he went to attend her 
call, the enthusiastic matton stood already at the thres- 
hold, prepared for her journey. There was in all the 
deportment of this remarkable woman, a promptitude of 
execution, and a sternness. qf^perseverance, founded on 
the fanaticism which she nursed so deeply, and which 
seemed to absorb all the ordinary purposes and feelings 
of mortality. One only human affection gleamed through 
her enthusiastic energies, like the broken glimpses of the 
sun through the rising clouds of a storm. It was her 
maternal fondness for her grandson — a fondness carried 
almost to the verge of dotage, in circumstances where 
the Catholic religion was not concerned, but which gave 
way instantly when it chanced either to thwart or come 
in contact with the more settled purpose of her soul, and 
the more devoteu duty of her life. Her life she would 
willingly have laid down to save the earthly object of her 
affection ; but that object itself she was ready to hazard, 
and would have been willing to sacrifice, could the res- 
toration of the Church of Rome have been purchased 
with his blood. Her discourse by the way, excepting on 


THE ABBOT. 


129 


the few occasions in which her extreme love of her grand- 
son found opportunity to display itself in anxiety for his 
health and accommodation, turned entirely on the duty 
of raising up the fallen honours of the Church, and re- 
placing a Catholic sovereign on the throne. There were 
times at which she hinted, though very obscurely and dis- 
tantly, that she herself was foredoomed by Heaven to 
perform a part in this important task ; and that she had 
more than mere human warranty for the zeal with which 
she engaged in it. But on this subject she expressed 
herself in such general language, that it was not easy to 
decide whether she made any actual pretensions to a di- 
rect and supernatural call, like the celebrated Elizabeth 
Barton, commonly called the Nun of Kent ;^^or wdiether 
she only dwelt upon the general duty which was incum- 
bent on all Catholics of the time, and the pressure of 
which she felt in an extraordinary degree. 

Yet, though Magdalen Grseme gave.no direct intimation 
of her pretensions to be considered as something beyond 
the ordinary class of mortals, the demeanour of one or two 
persons amongst the travellers wdiom they occasionally 
met, as they entered the more fertile and populous part of 
the valley, seemed to indicate their belief in her superior 
attributes. It is true, that two clowns, who drove before 
them a herd of cattle — one or two village wenches who 
seemed bound for some merry-making — a strolling soldier, 
in a rusted morion, and a wandering student, as his thread- 
bare black cloak and his satchel of books proclaimed him 
— passed our travellers without observation, or with a 
look of contempt ; and, moreover, that two or three chil- 
dren, attracted by the appearance of a dress so nearly 
resembling that of a pilgrim, joined in hooting and call- 
ing “ out upon the old mass-monger!” But one or two, 
who nourished in their bosoms respect for the down-fallen 
hierarchy — casting first a timorous glance around, to see 
that no one observed them — hastily crossed themselves — 
bent their knee to sister Magdalen, by which name they 
saluted her— -kissed her hand, or even the hem of her 
dalmatique — received with humility the Benedicite with 


130 


THE ABBOT. 


which she repaid their obeisance ; and then starting up, 
and again looking timidly round to see that they had been 
unobserved, hastily resumed their journey. Even while 
within sight of persons of the prevailing laith, there were 
individuals bold enough, by folding their arms and bend- 
ing their head, to give distant and silent intimation that 
they recognized sister Magdalen, and honoured alike her 
person and her purpose. 

She failed not to notice to her grandson these marks 
of honour and respect which* from time to time she re- 
ceived. “ You see,” she said, “ my son, that the ene- 
mies have been unable altogether to suppress the good 
spirit, or to root out the true seed. Amid heretics and 
schismatics, spoilers of the church’s' lands, and scoffers 
at saints and sacraments, there is left a remnant.” 

“ It is true, my mother,” said Roland Graeme ; “ but 
melhinks they are of a quality which can help us but little. 
See you not all those who wear steel at their side, and 
bear marks of better quality, ruffle past us as they would 
past the meanest beggars ? for those who give us any 
marks of sympathy, are the poorest of the poor and most 
outcast of the needy, who have neither bread to share 
with us, nor swords to defend us, nor skill to use them 
if they had. That poor wretch that last kneeled to you 
with such deep devotion, and who seemed emaciated by 
the touch of some wasting disease within, and the grasp 
of poverty without — that pale, shivering, miserable caitiff, 
how can he aid the great schemes you meditate ?” 

“ Much, my son,” said the matron, with more mildness 
than the page perhaps expected. “ When that pious son 
of the church returns from the shrine of Saint Ringan, 
whither he nOw travels by my counsel, and by the aid of 
good Catholics, — when he returns, healed of his wasting 
malady, high in health, and strong in limb, will pot the 
glory of his faithfulness, and its rpiraculous reward, speak 
louder in the ears of this besotted people of Scotland, 
than the din which is weekly made in a thousand hereti- 
cal pulpits 


THE ABBOT. 


131 


“ Ay, but, mother, I fear the Saint’s hand is out. It 
is long since we have heard of a miracle performed at 
Saint Ringan’s.” 

The matron made a dead pause, and, with a voice 
tremulous with emotion, asked, “ Art thou so unhappy as 
to doubt the power of the blessed Saint f” 

“ Nay, mother,” the youth hastened to reply, “ I be- 
lieve as the Holy Church commands, and doubt not Saint 
Ringan’s power of healing ; but, be it said with rever- 
ence, he hath not of late showed the inclination.” 

“ And has this land deserved it said the Catholic 
matron, advancing hastily while she spoke, until she at- 
tained the summit of a rising ground, over which the path 
led, and then standing again still. “ Here,” she said, 
“ stood the Cross, the limits of the Halidome of Saint 
Mary’s — here — on this eminence — from which the eye 
of the holy pilgrim might first catch a view of that an- 
cient Monastery, the light of the land, the abode of saints, 
and the grave of monarchs — Where is now that emblem 
of our faith It lies on the earth — a shapeless block, 
from which the broken fragments have been carried off, 
for the meanest uses, till now no semblance of its origi- 
nal form remains. Look towards the east, my son, where 
the sun was wont to glitter on stately spires — from which 
crosses and bells have now been hurled, as if the land 
had been invaded once more by barbarous heathens — 
Look at yonder battlements, of which we can, even at 
this distance, descry the partial demolition ; and ask if 
this land can expect from the blessed saints, whose shrines 
and whose images have been profaned, any other miracles 
but those of vengeance f How long,” she exclaimed, 
looking upward, “ How long shall it be delayed ?” She 
paused, and then resumed with enthusiastic rapidity, 
“ Yes, my son, all on earth is but for a period — joy and 
grief, triumph and desolation, succeed each other like 
cloud and sunshine ; — the vineyard shall not be forever 
trodden down, the gaps shall be amended, and the fruit- 
ful branches once more dressed and trimmed. Even 
this day — ay, even this hour, [ trust to hear news of im- 


132 


THE ABBOT. 


portance. Dally not — let us on — time is brief, and judg- 
tnent is certain.” 

Sbe resumed the path which led to the Abbey — a path 
which, in ancient times, was carefully marked out by 
posts and rails to assist the pilgrim in liis journey — these 
were now torn up and destroyed.. An half hour’s walk 
placed them in front of the once splendid Monastery, wliich, 
although the church was as yet entire, had not escaped 
the fury of the times. The long range of cells and of 
apartments for the use of the brethren, which occupied 
two sides of the great square, were almost entirely ruin- 
ous, the interior having been consumed by fire, which 
only the massive architecture of the outward walls had 
enabled them to resist. The Abbot’s house, which form- 
ed the third side of the square, was, though injured, still 
inhabited, and afforded refuge to the few brethren who 
yet, rather by connivance than by actual authority, were 
permitted to remain at Kennaquhair. Their stately offi- 
ces — their pleasant gardens — the magnificent cloisters 
constructed for their recreation, were all dilapidated and 
ruinous ; and some of the building materials had appar- 
ently been put into requisition by persons in the village 
and in the vicinity, who, formerly vassals of the Monas- 
tery, had not hesitated to appropriate to themselves a part 
of the spoils. Roland saw fragments of Gothic pillars 
richly carved, occupying the place of door-posts to the 
meanest huts ; and here and there a mutilated statue, 
inverted or laid on its side, made the door-post, or thres- 
hold of a wretched cow-house. The church itself was 
less injured than the other buildings of the Monastery. 
But the images which had been placed in the numerous 
niches of its columns and buttresses, having all fallen 
under the charge of idolatry, to which the superstitious 
devotion of the papists had justly exposed them, had been 
broken and thrown down, without much regard to the 
preservation of the rich and airy canopies and pedestals 
on which they were placed ; nor, if the devastation had 
stopped short at this point, could we have considered the 
preservation of these monuments of antiquity as an object 


THE ABBOT. 


133 


to be put in the balance with the introduction of the re- 
formed worship. 

Our pilgrims saw the demolition of these sacred and 
venerable representations of saints and ang^els — for, as 
sacred and venerable they had been taught to consider 
them, — with very different feelings. The antiquary may 
be permitted to regret the necessity of the action, but to 
jMagdalen Grteme it seemed a deed of impiety, deserving 
the instant vengeance of heaven — a sentiment in which 
her relative joined for the moment as cordially as her- 
self. Neither, however, gave vent to their feelings in 
words, and uplifted hands and eyes formed their only 
mode of expressing them. The page was about to ap- 
proach the great eastern gate of the church, but was pre- 
vented by his guide. “That gate,” she said, “has long 
been blockaded, that the heretical rabble may not know 
there still exist among the brethren of Saint Mary’s, men 
who dare worship where their predecessors prayed while 
alive, and were interred when dead — follow me this way, 
my son.” 

Roland Grajme followed accordingly ; and Magdalen, 
casting a hasty glance to see whether they were observed, 
(for she had learned caution from the danger of the times,) 
commanded her grandson to knock at a little wicket which 
she pointed out to him. “ But knock gently,” she ad- 
ded, with a motion expressive of caution. After a little 
space, during which no answer was returned, she signed 
to Roland to repeat his summons for admission ; and the 
door at length partially opening, discovered a glimpse of 
the thin and timid porter, by whom-the duty was perform- 
ed, skulking from the observation of those who stood 
without ; but endeavouring at the same time to gain a 
sight of them without being himself seen. How different 
from the proud consciousness of dignity with which 
the porter of ancient days offered his important brow 
and his goodly person to the pilgrims who repaired to 
Kennaquhair ! His solemn Intrate mei was ex- 

changed for a tremulous “ You cannot enter now — the 
12 VOL. I. 


134 


THE ABBOT. 


brethren are in their chambers.” But, when Magdalen 
Graeme asked, in an under, tone of voice, “ Hast thou 
forgotten me, my brother?” he changed his apologetic re- 
fusal to “ijjinter, my honoured sister, enter speedily, for 
evil eyes ^e upon us.” 

They entered accordingly, and having waited until the 
porter had, with jealous haste, barred and bolted the 
wicket, were conducted by him through several dark and 
winding passages. As they walked slowly on, he spoke 
to the matron in a subdued voice, as if he feared to trust 
the very walls with the avowal which he communicated. 

“ Our Fathers are assembled in the Chapter-house, 
worthy sister, — yes, in the Chapter-house — for the elec- 
tion of an Abbot. — Ah, Benedicite ! there must be no 
ringing of bells — no high mass — no opening of the great 
gates now, that the people might see and venerate their 
spiritual Father ! Our Fathers must hide themselves 
rather like robbers who choose a leader, than godly priests 
who elect a mitred Abbot.” 

“ Regard not that, my brother,” answered Magdalen 
Graeme “ the first successors of Saint Peter himself, 
were elected, not in sunshine, but in tempests — not in the 
halls of the Vatican, but in the subterranean vaults and 
dungeons of Heathen Rome — they were not gratulated 
with shouts and salvos of cannon-shot and of musquetry, 
and the display of artificial fire — no, my brother — but by 
the hoarse summons of Lictors and PraBtors, who came 
to drag the Fathers of the Church to martyrdom. From 
siu li adversity was the Church once raised, and by such 
will it now be purified. And mark me, brother ! not in 
the proudest days of the mitred Abbey, was a Superior 
ever chosen, whom his office shall so much honour, as 
he shall be honoured, who now takes it upon him in these 
days of tribulation. On whom, my brother, will the 
choice fall 

On whom can it fall — or, alas ! who would dare to 
reply to the call, save the worthy pupil of the Sainted 
Eustatius — the good and valiant Father Ambrose 


THE ABBOT. 


135 


“ I know it,” said Magdalen ; “ my heart told me, long 
ere your lips had uttered hi§ name. Stand forth, cour- 
ageous champion, and man the fatal breach ! — Rise, bold 
and experienced pilot, and seize the helm wldJe the tem- 
pest rages ! — Turn back the battle, brave rmser of the 
fallen standard ! — Wield crook and sling, noble shepherd 
of a scattered flock !” 

“ I pray you, hush, my sister !” said the porter, open- 
ing a door which led into the great church, “ the breth- 
ren will be presently here to celebrate their election with 
a solemn mass — I must marshal them the way to the high 
altar — all the offices of this venerable house have now 
devolved on one poor decrepit old man.” 

He left the church, and Magdalen and Roland remain- 
ed alone in that great vaulted space, whose style of rich, 
yet chaste architecture, referred its origin to the early 
part of the fourteenth century, the best period of Gothic 
building. But the niches were stripped of their images 
in the inside as well as the outside of the church ; and 
in the pell-mell havoc, the tombs of warriors and of prin- 
ces had been included in the demolition of the idolatrous 
shrines. Lances and swords of antique size, which had 
hung over the tombs of mighty warriors of former days, 
lay now strewed among reliques, with which the devotion 
of pilgrims had graced those of their peculiar saints ; 
and the fragments of the Knights and dames, which had 
once lain recumbent, or kneeled in an attitude of devo- 
tion where their mortal reliques were reposed, were min- 
gled with those of the saints and angels of the Gothic 
chisel, which the hand of violence had sent headlong 
from their stations. 

The most fatal symptom of the whole appeared to be, 
that, though this violence had now been committed for 
many months, the Fathers had lost so totally all heart and 
resolution, that they had not adventured even upon clear- 
ing away the rubbish, or restoring the church to some 
decent degree of order. This might have been done 
without much labour. But terror had overpowered the 
scanty remains of a body once so powerful, and sensible 


136 


THE ABBOT. 


they were only suffered to remain in this ancient seat by 
connivance and from compassion, they did not venture 
upon taking any step which might be construed into an 
assertion cff their ancient rigiits,. contenting themselves 
with the seCTet and obscure exercise of their religious cer- 
emonial, in as unostentatious a manner as was possible. 

Two or three of the more aged brethren had sunk un- 
der the pressure of the times, and the ruins had been 
partly cleared away to permit their interment. One stone 
had been laid over Father Nicholas, which recorded of 
him in special, that he had taken the vows during the in- 
cumbency of Abbot Ingilram, the period to which his 
memory so frequently recurred. Another flag-stone, yet 
more recently deposited, covered the body of Philip the 
Sacristan, eminent for his aquatic excursion with the 
phantom of Avenel ; and a third, the most recent of all, 
bore the outline of a mitre, and the words Hie jacet 
Eustatius Abbas ; for no one dared to add a word of 
commendation in favour of his learning, and strenuous 
zeal for the Roman Catholic faith. 

Magdalen Graeme looked at and perused the brief 
records of these monuments successively, and paused 
over that of Father Eustace. “ In a good hour for thy- 
self,” she said, “ but oh ! in an evil hour for the Church, 
wert thou called from us. Let thy spirit be with us, holy 
man — encourage thy successor to tread in thy footsteps 
— give him thy bold and inventive capacity, thy zeal and 
thy discretion — even thy piety exceeds not his.” As she 
spoke, a side door, which closed a passage from the Ab- 
bot’s house into the church, was thrown open, that the 
Fathers might enter the choir, and conduct to the high 
altar the Superior whom they had elected. 

In former times, this was one of the most splendid of 
the many pageants which the hierarchy of Rome had 
devised to attract the veneration of the faithful. The 
period during which the Abbacy remained vacant, w'as a 
state of mourning, or, as their embii^maiical phrase ex- 
pressed it, of widowhood ; a melancholy term, which 
was changed into rejoicing and triumph when a new Su 


THE ABBOT, 


137 


perior was chosen. When the folding-doors were on 
such solemn occasions thrown open, and the new Abbot 
appeared on the threshold in full-blown dignity, with ring 
and mitre, and dalmatique and crosier, bis heary stand- 
ard-bearers and bis juvenile dispensers of incense pre- 
ceding him, and the venerable train of monks behind him, 
with all besides which could announce the supreme au- 
thority to which he was now raised, his appearance was 
a signal for the magnificent Jubilate to rise from the 
organ and music-loft, and to be joined by the correspond- 
ing bursts of Alleluiah from the whole assembled con- 
gregation. Now all was changed. In the midst of rub- 
bish and desolation, seven or eight old men, bent and 
shaken as much by grief and fear as by age, shrouded 
hastily in the proscribed dress of their order, w^andered 
like a procession of spectres, from the door which had 
been thrown open, up through the encumbered passage, 
to the high altar, there to inslal their elected Superior a 
chief of ruins. It was like a band of bewildered travel- 
lers choosing a chief in the wilderness of Arabia ; or a 
shipwrecked crew electing a captain upon the barren 
island on which fate has thrown them. 

They who, in peaceful times, are most ambitious of 
authority among others, shrink from the competition at 
such eventful periods, when neither ease nor parade at- 
tend the possession of it, and when it gives only a pain- 
ful pre-eminence both in danger and in labour, and 
exposes the ill-fated chieftain to the murmurs of his dis- 
contented associates, as well as to the first assault of llie 
common enemy. But he on whom the office of the 
Abbot of Saint Mary’s was now conferred, had a mind 
fitted for the situation to which he was called. Bold 
and enthusiastic, yet generous and forgiving — wise and 
skilful, yet zealous and prompt — he wanted but a bettei 
cause than the support of a decaying superstition, to 
have raised him to the rank of a truly great man. But 
as the end crowns the work, it also forms the rule by 
which it must be ultimately judged ; and those who, with 

12'^ VOL. I. 


138 


THE AH EOT, 


sincerity and generosity, fight and fall in an evil cause, 
posterity can only compassionate as victims of a gener- 
ous but fatal error. Amongst these, we must rank Am- 
brosius, tli^ last Abbot of Kennaquhair, whose designs 
must be condemned, as their success would have riveted 
on Scotland the chains of antiquated superstition and 
spiritual tyranny ; but whose talents commanded respect, 
and whose virtues, even from the enemies of his faith, 
extorted esteem. 

The bearing of the new Abbot served of itself to dig- 
nify a ceremonial which was deprived of all other attri- 
butes of grandeur. Conscious of the peril in which 
they stood, and recalling, doubtless, the better days they 
had seen, there hung over his brethren an appearance of 
mingled terror, and grief, and shame, which induced 
them to hurry over the office in which they were engag- 
ed, as something at once degrading and dangerous. 

But not so Father Ambrose. His features, indeed, 
expressed a deep melancholy, as he walked up the cen- 
tre aisle, amid the ruin of things which he considered as 
holy, but his brow was undejected, and his step firm and 
solemn. He seemed to think that the dominion which 
he was about to receive, depended in no sort upon the 
external circumstances under which it was conferred ; 
and if a mind so firm, was accessible to sorrow or fear, 
it was not on his own account, but on that of the church 
to which he had devoted himself. 

At length he stood on the broken steps of the high 
altar, bare-footed, as was the rule, and holding in his 
hand his pastoral staff, for the gemmed ring and jewel- 
led mitre had become secular spoils. No obedient vas- 
sals came, man after man, to make their homage, and to 
offer the tribute which should provide their spiritual Su- 
perior with palfrey and trappings. No Bishop assisted 
at the solemnity, to receive into the higher ranks of the 
Church nobility a dignitary, whose voice in the legisla- 
ture was as potential as his own. With hasty and maim- 
ed rites, the few remaining brethren stepped forward al- 
ternately to give their new Abbot the hiss of peace, in 


THE All EOT. 


139 


token of fraternal affection and spiritual homage. Mass 
was then hastily performed, but in such precipitation as 
if it had been hurried over rather to satisfy the scruples 
of a few youths, who were impatient to set out on a hunt- 
ing party, than as if it made the most solemn part of a 
solemn ordination. The officiating priest faltered as he 
spoke the service, and often looked around, as if he ex- 
pected to be interrupted in the midst of his office ; and 
the brethren listened as to that which, short as it was, 
they wished yet more abridged. 

These symptoms of alarm increased as the ceremony 
proceeded, and, as it seemed, were not caused by mere 
apprehension alone ; for, amid the pauses of the hymn, 
there were heard without sounds of a very different sort, 
beginning faintly and at a distance, but at length ap- 
proaching close to the exterior of the church, and stun- 
ning with dissonant clamour those engaged in the service. 
The winding of horns, blown with no regard to harmo- 
ny or concert ; the jangling of bells, the thumping of 
drums, the squeaking of bagpipes, and the clash of cym- 
bals — the shouts of a multitude, now as in laughter, now 
as in anger — the shrill tones of female voices, and of 
those of children, mingling with the deeper clamours of 
men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and 
then awed into utter silence the official hymns of the 
Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary 
interruption, will be explained in the next chapter. 


140 


THE ABBOT. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier — 

Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern — 

Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together. 

And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest. 

Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting — 

Comic, yet fearful — droll, and yet destructive. 

The Conspiracy. 

The Monks ceased their song, which, like that of the 
choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died 
away in a quaver of consternation ; and, like a flock of 
chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at 
first made a movement to disperse and fly in different di- 
rections, and then, with despair rather than hope, hud- 
dled themselves around their new Abbot ; who, retaining 
the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him 
through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of 
the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark 
on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his 
companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford 
them no other protection. 

Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the 
page stepped from the station which hitherto they had 
occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as de- 
sirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, 
whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low 
to the Abbot ; and while Magdalen seemed about to 
speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at 
which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was 
at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his 
hand upon his dagger. 

The Abbot motioned to both to forbear : “ Peace, my 
sister,” he said, in a low tone, but which being in a dif- 
ferent key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be 


THE ABBOT. 


141 


distinctly heard even amidst the tumult'; — “Peace,” he 
said, “ my sister ; let the new Superior of Saint Mary’s 
himself receive and reply, to the grateful acclamations 
of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation. 
And thou, my son, forbear, 1 charge thee, to touch thy 
earthly weapon ; — if it is the pleasure of our protectress 
that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of vio- 
lence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge 
thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the 
church.” 

The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now 
every moment louder ; and voices were heard impatient- 
ly demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and 
with a step which even the emergency of danger ren- 
dered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards 
the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of author- 
ity, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what 
they desired ^ 

There was a moment’s silence, and then a loud laugh 
from without. At length a voice replied, “ We desire 
entrance into the church ; and when the door is opened, 
you will soon see who we are.” 

“ By whose authority do you require entrance said 
the Father. 

“ By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of 
Unreason, replied the voice from without ; and, from 
the laugh which followed, it seemed as if there was some- 
thing highly ludicrous couched under this reply. 

“ I know not, and seek not, to know your meaning,” 
replied the Abbot, “ since it is probably a rude one. 
But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants 
in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to 
command here.” 

“ Open the door,” said another rude voice, “ and we 
will try titles with you. Sir Monk, and show you a Su- 
perior we must all obey.” 

“ Break open the doors if he dallies any longer,” said 
a third, “ and down with the carrion monks who would 
bar us of our privilege!” 


142 


THE ABBOT. 


A general shout followed. “ Ay, ay, our privilege ! 
our privilege ! down with the doors, and with the lur- 
dane monks, if they make opposition!” 

The knocking was now exchanged for blow^s with 
great hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, 
must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw 
resistance would be vain, and who did not wish to incense 
the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence 
earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. “ My 
children,” said he, ‘‘ I will save you from committing a 
great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate — he 
is gone to fetch tlie keys — meantime, I pray you to con- 
sider with yourselves if you are in a state of mind to 
cross the holy threshold.” 

“ Tillyvalley for your papistry !” was answered from 
without ; “ we are in the mood of the monks when they 
are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for 
lenten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him 
come speedily, or we heave away readily. — Said I well, 
comrades ?” 

“ Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done,” 
said the multitude ; and had not the keys arrived at 
that moment, and the porter, in hasty terror, performed 
his office, throwing open the great door, the populace 
would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had 
done so, the affrighted janitor fled like one who has 
drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be over- 
whelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with 
one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Ab- 
bot, who alone kept his station about three yards from 
the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. 
His brethren — partly encouraged by his devotion, partly 
ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense 
of duty — remained huddled close together, at the back 
of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza 
when the doors were opened ; but, contrary to what 
might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assail- 
ants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was 
a cry of “ A hall!— a halt — to order, my masters ! and 


THE ABBOT. 


143 


let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems 
them.” 

The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to 
order was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed 
of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in 
various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified 
and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse’s head 
painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole cov- 
ered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide 
the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and 
plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the 
hobbie-horsej'^so often alluded to in our ancient drama ; 
and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that 
concludes Bayes’s tragedy. To rival the address and 
agility displayed by this character, another personage 
advanced, in the more formidable character of a huge 
dragon, with gilded wdngs, open jaws, and a scarlet 
tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to 
overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, 
daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him ; 
while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a 
goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon 
interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his 
prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild ani- 
mals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the 
joiner ; for the decided preference which, they gave to 
the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any 
formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous specta- 
tors that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There 
was a group of outlaws, with Robin Hood and Little 
John at their head, the best representation exhibited at 
the time ; and no great wonder, since most of the actors 
were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom 
they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of 
a less marked description. Men were disguised as wo- 
men, and women as men — children wore the dress of 
aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their 
hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on 
their round heads — while grandsires assumed the infan- 


144 


THE ABBOT. 


tine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, 
many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over 
the rest of their dress ; while coloured pasteboard and 
ribands furnished out decorations for others. Those 
who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and 
turned their jackets inside out ; and thus the transmu- 
tation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque 
mummers, was at once completed. 

The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting ap- 
parently for some person of the highest authority amongst 
them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to 
observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to 
comprehend their purpose and meaning. 

Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, 
and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of 
Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged such 
saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair 
and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the 
vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but 
encouraged, by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile 
and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to in- 
demnify themselves for the privations and penances im- 
posed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics 
for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of 
the church itself were most frequently resorted to ; and, 
strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy them- 
selves. 

While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do 
not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering 
the people to become so irreverently familiar with things 
sacred ; they then imagined the laity to be much in the 
condition of a labourer’s horse, which does not submit to 
the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, 
at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his 
pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the 
master who usually drives him. But, when times chang- 
ed — when doubt of the Roman Catliolic doctrine, and 
hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed 
party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small in- 


THE ABBOT. 


145 


convenience arose from the established practice of games 
and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all 
they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridi- 
cule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than 
the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a 
very different tendency when done in the spirit of sar- 
castic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in 
exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, 
therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they 
had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal 
of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the 
Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed 
preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and 
immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed 
to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the 
Church of Rome, and her observances. But it was 
long ere these scandalous and immoral sportst. could be 
abrogated ; — the rude multitude continued attached to 
their fivourite pastimes ; and both in England and Scot- 
land, the mitre of the Catholic — the rochet of the re- 
formed bishop — and the cloak and band of the Calvin- 
istic divine — were, in turn, compelled to give place to 
those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy- 
Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason.* 

It was the latter personage, who now in full costume, 
made his approach to the great door of the Church of 
St. Mary’s, accoutred in such a manner as to form a 
caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and at- 
tendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard 
on the very day of his installation, in the presence of 
his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock 
dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose 
thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a sup- 
plemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leath- 
er, with the front like a grenadier’s cap, adorned with 


* From the interesting novel, entitled Anastasius,it seems the same burlesque 
ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. 

13 VOL. I. 


146 


THE ABBOT. 


mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted 
a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent fea- 
ture, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gem- 
med as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and 
his cope of canvas, curiously painted, and cut into open 
work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of 
an owl ; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, 
and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus 
resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, trans- 
lated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and 
which may still be procured in black letter, for about 
one sterling pound per leaf. 

The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper 
dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque re- 
semblance to the officers of the Convent which their 
leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader 
in regular procession, and the motley characters, which 
had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in 
his train, shouting as they came, — “ A hall, a hall ! for 
the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of 
Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason !” 

The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renew-ed its 
din 5 the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laugh- 
ed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, 
and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopp’d and hiss- 
ed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, 
and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hob- 
nailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with 
the marks of their energetic caprioles. 

It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deaf- 
ened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogeth- 
er stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom per- 
sonal apprehension, and a consciousness that much of the 
popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed 
against them, were, moreover, little comforted by the reflec- 
tion, that, bold in their disguise, the mummers who whooped 
and capered around them, might, on slight provocsrtion,turn 
their jest into earnest, or at least jiroceed to those practical 


THE ABBOT. 


147 


pleasantries, which at all times arise so naturally out of 
the frolicksome and mischievous disposition of the pop- 
ulace. They looked to their Abbot amid the tumult, 
with such looks as landsmen cast upon the pilot when 
the storm is at the highest — looks which express that 
they are devoid of all hope arising from their own exer- 
tions, and not very confident in any success likely to at- 
tend those of their Palinurus. 

The Abbot himself seemed at a stand ; he felt no fear, 
but he was sensible of the danger of expressing his ris- 
ing indignation, which he was scarcely able to suppress. 
He made a gesture with his hand as if commanding si- 
lence, which was at first only replied to by redoubled 
shouts, and peals of wild laughter. When, however, the 
same motion, and as nearly in the same manner, had 
been made by Howleglas, it was immediately obeyed 
by his riotous companions, who expected fresh food for 
mirth in the conversation betwixt the real and mock Ab- 
bot, having no small confidence in the vulgar wit and 
impudence of their leader. Accordingly they began to 
shout, “ To it, fathers — to it!” — “ Fight monk, fight 
madcap — Abbot against Abbot is fair play, and so is rea- 
son against unreason, and malice against monkery 1” 

“ Silence, my mates !” said Howleglas ; “ Cannot 
two learned Fathers of the Church hold communion to- 
gether, but you must come here with your bear-garden 
whoop, and hollow’, as if you were hounding forth a mas- 
tiff upon a mad bull ? I say silence ! and let this learned 
Father and I confer, touching matters affecting our mu- 
tual state and authority.” 

“ My children” — said Father Ambrose. 

“ My children too, — and happy children they are !” 
said his burlesque counterpart ; “ many a wise child 
knows not its own father, and it is well they have two to 
choose betw'ixt.” 

“ If thou hast aught in thee, save scoffing and rib- 
aldry,” said the real Abbot, permit me, fortbineown 


148 


THE ABBOT. 


soul’s sake, to speak a few words to these misguided 
men.” 

“ Aught in me but scoffing, sayest thou ?” retorted 
the Abbot of Unreason ; “ Why, reverend brother, I 
have all that becomes mine office at this time a-day — 
I have beef, ale and brandy-wine, with other condiments 
not worth mentioning; and for speaking, man — why, 
speak away, and we will have turn about, like honest 
fellows.” 

During this discussion, the wrath of Magdalen Grseme 
had risen to the uttermost ; ''she approached the Abbot, 
and placing herself by his side, said in a low and yet 
distinct tone — “ Wake and arouse thee. Father — the 
sword of Saint Peter is in thy hand — strike and avenge 
St. Peter’s patrimony ! Bind them in the chains which, 
being rivetted by the church on earth, are rivetted in 
Heaven” 

“ Peace, sister I” said the Abbot ; “ let not tbeir 
madness destroy our discretion — 1 pray thee, peace, 
and let me do mine office. It is the first, peradventure 
it may be the last time, I shall be called on to discharge 
it.” 


“ Nay, my holy brother !” said Howleglas, “ I read 
you, take the holy sister’s advice — never throve convent 
without woman’s counsel.” 

“ Peace, vain man !” said ihe^Abbot ; “ and you, my 
brethren” 

“ Nay, nay !” said the Abbot of Unreason, “ no speak- 
ing to the lay people, until you have conferred with your 
brother of the cowK I sw^ear by bell, book, and candle, 
that not one of rny congregation shall listen to one word 
you have to say, so you had as well address yourself to 
me who will.” 

To escape a conference so ludicrous, the Abbot again 
attempted an appeal to what respectful feelings might yet 
remain amongst the inhabitants of the Halidome, once so 
devoted to their spiritual superiors. - Alas ! tlie Abbot 
of Unreason had only to flourish his mock crosier, and 
the whooping, the hallQ|j|j^, and tlie dancine:, were re- 


TilE ABBOT. 


149 


newed with a vehemence which would have defied the 
lungs of Stentor. 

‘ And now, my mates,” said the Abbot of Unreason, 
‘‘once again dight your gabs and be hushed-let us see 
if the Cock of Kennaquhair will fight or flee the pit.” 

^ here was again a dead silence of expectation, of 
which Father Ambrose, availed himself to address his 
antagonist, seeing plainly that he could gain an audience 
on no other terms. “ Wretched man !” said he, “ hast 
thou no better employment for thy carnal wit, than to 
employ it in leading these blind and helpless creatures 
into the pit of utter darkness .^” 

“Truly, my brother,” replied Howleglas, “I can see 
little difierence betwixt your employment and mine, 
save that you make a sermon of a jest, and I make a 
jest of a sermon.” 

“ Unhappy being,” said the Abbot, “ who hast no 
better subject of pleasantry than that which should make 
thee tremble — no sounder jest than thine own sins, and 
no better objects for laughter than those who can ab- 
solve thee from the guilt of them !” 

“Verily, my reverend brother,” said the mock Abbot, 
“ what you say might be true, if, in laughing at hypo- 
crites, I meant to laugh at religion. — O, it is a precious 
thing to wear a long dress, with a girdle and a cowl — 
we become a holy pillar of Mother Church, and a boy 
must not play at ball against the walls for fear of break- 
ing a painted window.” 

“ And will you, m3" friends,” said the Abbot, looking 
round and speaking with a vehemence which secured 
him a tranquil audience for some time, — “ will you suffer 
a profane buffoon, within the very church of God, to in- 
sult his ministers Many of you — all of you, perhaps, 
have lived under my holy predecessors, who were called 
upon to rule in this church where I am called upon to 
suffer. If you have worldly goods, they are their gift ; 
and, when }"ou scorned not to accept better gifts — the 
mercy and forgiveness of the Church — were they not 
13 * VOL. I. jm 


160 


THE ABBOT. 


ever at your command ? — did we net pray while you 
were jovial — wake while you slept?” 

“ Some of the good wives of the Halidome were wont 
to say so,” said the Abbot of Unreason ; but his jest 
met in this instance but slight applause, and Father Am- 
brose having gained a moment’s attention hastened to 
improve it. 

“ What !” said he ; ‘‘ and is this grateful — is it seemly 
— is it honest — to assail with scorn a few old men, from 
whose predecessors you hold all, and whose only wish 
is to die in peace among these fragments of what was 
once the light of the land, and whose daily prayer is, 
that they may be removed ere that hour comes when the 
last spark shall be extinguished, and the land left in 
the darkness which it has chosen, rather than light? We 
have not turned against you the edge of the spiritual 
sword, to revenge our temporal persecution ; the tempest 
of your wrath hath despoiled us of land, and deprived us 
almost of our daily food, but we have not repaid it with 
the thunders of excommunication — we only pray your 
leave to live and die within the church which is our own, 
invoking God, Our Lady, and the Holy Saints, to pardon 
your sins and our own, undisturbed by scurril buffoonery, 
and blasphemy.” 

This speech, so different in tone and termination from 
that which the crowd had expected, produced an effect 
upon their feelings unfavourable to the prosecution of 
their frolic. The morrice-dancers stood still — the hob- 
by-horse surceased his capering — pipe and tabor were 
mute, and “silence, like a heavy cloud,” seemed to de- 
scend on the late noisy rabble. Several of the beasts 
were obviously moved to compunction ; the bear could 
not restrain his sobs, and a huge fox was observed to 
wipe his eyes with his tail. But in especial the dragon, 
lately so formidably rampant, now relaxed the terror of 
his claws, uncoiled his tremendous rings, and grumbled 
out of his fiery throat in a repentant tone, “ By the 
mass, I thought no harm in exercising our old pastime, 
but an I had thought t^good Father 'would have taken 


THE ABBOT. 


151 


it so to heart, I would as soon have played your devil 
as your dragon.” 

In this momentary pause, the Abbot stood amongst 
the miscellaneous and grotesque forms by which he was 
surrounded, triumphant as Saint Anthony, in Callot’s 
Temptations ; but Howleglas would not so resign his 
purpose. 

“ And how now, my masters !” said he ; “ is this fair 
play or no ? Have you not chosen me Abbot of Unrea- 
son, and is it lawful for any of you to listen to common 
sense to-day f Was 1 not formally elected by you in sol- 
emn chapter, held in Luckie Martin’s change-hoUse, and 
will you now desert me, and give up your old pastime 
and privilege ? — Play out the play — and he that speaks 
the next word of sense or reason, or bids us think or con- 
sider, or the like of that, which befits not the day, I will 
have him solemnly ducked in the mill-dam!” 

The rabble, mutable as usual, huzzaed, the pipe and 
tabor struck up, the hobby-horse pranced, the beasts 
roared, and even the repentant dragon began again to 
coil up his spires and prepare himself for fresh gambols. 
But the Abbot might have still' overcome by his elo- 
quence and his entreaties, the malicio»is designs of the 
revellers, had not Dame Magdalen Graeme given loose 
to the indignation vvliich she had long suppressed. 

“ Scoffers,” she said, and men of Belial — Blasphem- 
ous heretics, and truculent tyrants” 

“ Your patience, my sister, 1 entreat and I command 
you !” said the Abbot; “let me do my duty — disturb 
me not in mine office I” 

But Dame Magdalen continued to thunder forth her 
threats in the name of Popes and Councils, and in the 
name of every Saint, from Saint Michael downward. 

“ My comrades !” said the Abbot of Unreason, “ this 
good dame hath not spoke a single word of reason, and 
therein may esteem herself free from the law. But 
^v^lat she spoke was meant for reason, and, therefore, 
unless she confesses and avouches all which she has said 
to be nonsense, it shall pass for such, so far as to incur 


152 


TliE ABBOT. 


^ the penalty of our statutes. — Wherefore, holy dame, pil- 
grim, or abbess, or whatever thou art, be mute with thy 
mummery, or beware the mill-dam. We will have 
neither spiritual nor temporal scolds in our Diocese of 
Unreason !” 

As he spoke thus, he extended his hand tow^ards the 
old woman, while his followers shouted “ A doom — a 
doom !” and prepared to second his purpose, w hen lo ! 
it was suddenly frustrated. Roland Graenie had witness- 
ed with indignation the insults offered to his old spiritual 
preceptor, but yet had wit enough to reflect he could 
render liim no assistance, but might well, by ineffective 
interference, make matters worse. But when he saw 
his aged relative in danger of personal violence, he gave 
way to the natural impetuosity of his temper, and, step- 
ping forward, struck his poniard into the body of the 
Abbot of Unreason, whom the blow instantly prostrated 
on the pavement. 


CHAPTER XV. 


As when in tumults rise the ignoble crowd, 

Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud, 

And stones and brands in rattling furies fly, 

And all the rustic arms which fury can supply — 

Then if some grave and pious man appear, 

They hush their noise, and lend a listening ear. 

Dnjdeu's Virgil. 


A DREADFUL sliout of Vengeance was raised by the 
revellers, whose sport was thus so fearfully interrupted ; 
but, for an instant, the want of weapons amongst the mul- 
titude, as well as the inflamed features and brandished 
poniard of Roland Graeme, kept them at bay, while the 
Abbot, horror-struck at the violence, implored, with up- 
lifted hands, pardon for blood-shed committed within 
the sanctuary. IMagdalen Graeme alone expressed 


THE ABBOT. 


153 


triumph in the blow her descendant had dealt to the 
scoffer, mixed, however, with a wild and anxious ex- 
pression of terror for her grandson’s safety. “ Let him 
perish,” she said, “ in his blasphemy — let him die on 
the holy pavement which he has insulted!” 

But the rage of the multitude, the grief of the Abbot, 
the exultation of the enthusiastic Magdalen, were all 
mistimed and unnecessary. Howleglas, mortally wound- 
ed as he was supposed to be, sprung alertly up from the 
floor, calling aloud, “ A miracle, a miracle, my mas- 
ters ! as brave a miracle as ever was wrought in the Kirk 
of Kennaquhair. — And I charge you, my masters, as 
your lawfully chosen Abbot, that you touch no one without 
my command — You, wolf and bear, will guard this prag- 
matic youth, but without hurting him — And you, rever- 
end brother, will, with your comrades, withdraw to your 
cells ; for our conference has ended like all conferences, 
leaving each of his own mind, as before ; and if we fight, 
both you, and your brethren, and the Kirk, will have the 
worst on’t — Wherefore, pack up your pipes and begone.” 

The hubbub was beginning again to awaken, but still 
Father Ambrose hesitated, as uncertain to what path his 
duty called him, whether to face out the present storm, 
or to reserve himself for a better moment. His brother 
of Unreason observed his difficulty, and said, in a tone 
more natural and less affected than that with which he 
had hitherto sustained his character, “We came hither, 
my good sir, more in mirth than in mischief — our bark 
is worse than our bite— and, especially, we mean you no 
personal harm — wherefore, draw off while the play is 
good ; for it is ill whistling for a hawk when she is once 
on the soar, and worse to snatch the quarry from the 
ban-dog — Let these fellows once begin their brawl, and 
it will be too much for madness itself, let alone the Ab- 
bot of Unreason, to bring them back to the lure.” 

The brethren crowded around Father Ambrosius, 
and joined in urging him to give place to the torrent. 
The present revel was, they said, an ancient custom 
which his predecessors had permitted, and old Father 


154 


THE ABBOT. 


Nicholas himself had played the dragon in the days ol 
the Abbot Ingilram. 

“ And we now reap the fruit of the seed which they 
have so unadvisedly sown,” said Ambrosius ; “ tliey 
taught men to make a mock of what is holy, what won- 
der that the descendants of scoffers become robbers and 
plunderers f But be it as you list, my brethren — move 
towards the dortour — And you, dame, I command you 
by the authority which I have over you, and by your 
respect for that youth’s safety, that you go with us with- 
out farther speech — Yet, stay — what' are your intentions 
towards that youth whom you detain prisoner f — Wot 
ye,” he continued, addressing Howleglas in a stern tone 
of voice, “ that he hears the livery of the house of 
Avenel ? They who fear not the anger of Heaven, may 
at least dread the wrath of man.” 

“ Cumber not yourself concerning him,” answered 
Howleglas, “ we know right well who and what he is.” 

“ Let me pray,” said the Abbot, in a tone of entreaty, 
“that you do him no wrong for the rash deed which he 
attempted in his imprudent zeal.” 

“Isay, trouble not yourself about it. Father,” an- 
swered Howleglas, “ but move off with your train, male 
and female, or I will not undertake to save yonder she- 
saint from the ducking-stool — And as for bearing of mal- 
ice, my stomach has no room for it ; it is” he added, 
clapping his hand on his portly belly, “ too well bom- 
basted out with straw and buckram — gramercy to them 
both — they kept out that madcap’s dagger as well as a 
Milan corslet could have done.” 

In fact, the home-driven poniard of Roland Graeme 
had lighted upon the stuffing of the fictitious paunch, 
which the Abbot of Unreason wore as a part of his char- 
acteristic dress, and it was only the force of the blow 
which had prostrated that reverend person on the ground 
for a moment. 

Satisfied in some degree by this man’s assurances, 
and compelled to give way to superior force, the Abbot 
Ambrosius retired from the Church at the head of the 


THE AEEOT. 


155 


monks, and left the court free for the revellers to work 
their will. But, wild and wilful as these rioters were, 
they accompanied the retreat of the religionists with 
none of those shouts of contempt and derision with which 
they had at first hailed them. The Abbot’s discourse 
had affected some of tliem with remorse, others with 
shame, and all with a transient degree of respect. They 
remained silent until the last monk had disappeared 
through the side-door which communicated with their 
dwelling-place, and even then it cost some exhortations 
on the part of Howleglas, some caprioles of the hobby- 
horse, and some wallops of the dragon, to rouse once 
more the rebuked spirit of revelry. 

“ And how now, my masters said the Abbot of 
Unreason ; “ and wherefore look on me with such blank 
Jack-a-Lent visages.^ Will you lose your old pastime 
for an old wife’s tale of saints and purgatory ? Why, I 
thought you would have made all split long since — 
Come, strike up, tabor and harp, strike up, fiddle and 
rebeck — dance and be merry to-day, and let care come 
to-morrow ! Bear and wolf, look to your prisoner — 
prance, hobby— hiss, dragon, and halloo, boys — we grow 
older every moment we stand idle, and life is too short 
to be spent in playing mumchance.” 

This pithy exhortation was attended with the effect 
desired. They fumigated the church with burnt wool 
and feathers instead of incense, put foul water into the 
holy-water basins, and celebrated a parody on the Church 
service, the mock Abbot officiating at the altar ; they 
sung ludicrous and indecent parodies, to the tunes of 
church hymns ; they violated whatever vestments or ves- 
sels belonging to the Abbey they could lay their hands 
upon ; and, playing every freak which the whim of the 
moment could suggest to their wild caprice, at length 
they fell to more lasting deeds of demolition, pulled down 
and destroyed some carved wood-work, dashed out the 
painted windows which had escaped former violence, 
and in their rigorous search after sculpture dedicated to 
‘dolatry, began to destroy what ornaments yet remained 


156 


THE ABBOT. 


entire upon the tombs, and around the cornices of the 
pillars. 

The spirit of demolition, like other tastes, increases by 
indulgence ; from these lighter- attempts at mischief, the 
more tumultuous part of the meeting began to meditate 
destruction on a more extended scale — “ Let us heave 
it down altogether, the old crow’s nest,” became a gen- 
eral cry among them ; “ it has served the Pope and his 
rooks too long and up they struck a ballad which was 
then popular among the lower classes. 

The Paip, that pagan full of pride, 

Hath blinded us ower lang, 

For where the blind the blind doth lead, 

No marvel baith gae wraiog. 

Like prince and king, 

He led the ring 
Of all iniquity. 

Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix, 

Under the greenwood tree. 

The bishop rich, he could not preach 
For sporting with the lasses ; 

The silly friar behoved to fleech »v 

For awmous as he passes 5 

The curate his creed 
He could not read, — 

Shame fa’ the company ! 

Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix. 

Under the greenwood tree.”^® 

Thundering out this chorus of a notable hunting song, 
wtiich had been pressed into the service of some polem- 
ical poet, the followers of the Abhot of Unreason were 
turning every moment more tumultuous, and getting be- 
yond the management even of that reverend prelate him- 
self, when a knight in full armour, followed by two or 
three men-at-arms, entered the church, and in a stern 
voice commanded them to forbear their riotous mummery. 

His visor was up, but if it had been lowered, the cog- 
nizance of the holly-branch sufficiently distinguished Sir 
Halbert Glendinning, who, on his homeward road, was 


THE ABBOT. 


157 


passing through the village of Kennaquhair ; and moved, 
perhaps, by anxiety for his brother’s safety, had come 
directly to the church on hearing of the uproar. 

“ What is the meaning of this,” he said, “ my mas- 
ters f are ye Christian men, and the King’s subjects, and 
yet waste and destroy church and chancel, like so many 
heathens 

All stood silent, though doubtless there were several 
disappointed and surprised at receiving chiding instead 
of thanks from so zealous a protestant. 

The dragon, indeed, did at length take upon him to 
be spokesman, and growled from the depth of his painted 
maw, that they did but sweep Popery out of the church 
with the besom of destruction. 

“ What ! my friends,” replied Sir Halbert Glendin- 
ning, think you this mumming and masking has not 
more of Popery in it than have these stone walls ? Take 
the leprosy out of your flesh, before you speak of purify- 
ing stone walls — abate your insolent license, which leads 
but to idle vanity and sinful excess ; and know, that what 
you now practise, is one of the profane and unseemly 
sports introduced by the priests of Rome themselves, to 
mislead and to brutify the souls which fell into their net.” 

‘‘ Marry come up — are you there with your bears 
muttered the dragon, with a draconic sullenness, which 
was in good keeping with his character, “ we had as good 
have been Romans stilh if we are to have no freedom in 
our pastimes !” 

“ Dost thou reply to me so said Sir Halbert Glen- 
dinning ; “ or is there any. pastime in grovelling on the 
ground there like a gigantic kail-worm ? — Get out of thy 
painted case, or, by my knighthood, I will treat you like 
the beast and reptile you have made yourself.” 

“ Beast and reptile retorted the offended dragon, 
“ setting aside your knighthood, I hold myself as well a 
born man as thyself.” 

The Knight made no answer in words, but bestowed 
two such blows with the butt of his lance on the petulant 
14 VOL. I. 


158 


THE ABBOT. 


dragon, that had not the hoops which constituted the ribs 
of the machine been pretty strong, they would hardly 
have saved those of the actor from being broken. In all 
haste the masker crept out of his disguise, unwilling to 
abide a third buffet from the lance of the enraged Knight. 
And when the eK-dragon stood on the floor of the church, 
he presented to Halbert Glendinning the well-known 
countenance of Dan of the Howlethirst, an ancient com- 
rade of his own, ere fate had raised him so high above 
the rank to which he was born. The^ clown looked sul- 
kily upon the Knight, as if to upbraid him for his violence 
towards an old acquaintance, and Glendinning’s own good 
nature reproached him for the violence he had acted 
upon him. 

“ 1 did wrong, to strike thee, Dan,” he said; ‘‘but in 
truth, I knew thee not — thou wert ever a mad fellow — 
come to Avenel Castle, and we shall see how my hawks 
fly.” 

“ And if we show him hot falcons that will mount as 
merrily as rockets,” said the Abbot of Unreason, “ 1 
would your honour laid as hard on my bones as you did 
on his even now.” 

“ How now. Sir Knave,” said the Knight, “ and what 
has brought you hither .^” 

The Abbot, hastily ridding himself of the false nose 
which mystified his physiognomy, and the supplementary 
belly which made up his disguise, stood before his master 
in his real character, of Adam Woodcock the falconer 
of Avenel. 

“ How, varlet!” said the Knight, “ hast thou dared to 
come here and disturb the very house my brother was 
dwelling in 

“ And it was even for that reason, craving your hon- 
our’s pardon, that I came hither — for 1 heard the country 
was to be up to choose an Abbot of Unreason, and sure, 
thought I, I that can sing, dance, leap backwards over a 
broad-sword, and am as good a fool as ever sought pro- 
motion, have all chance of carrying the office ; and if I 
gain my election, I may stand his honour’s brother in 


TilE ABBOT. 


159 


some stead, supposing things fall roughly out at the kirk 
of Saint Mary’s.” 

“ Thou art but a cogging knave,” said Sir Halbert, 
“ and well I wot, that love of ale and brandy, besides 
the humour of riot and frolic, would draw thee a mile, 
when love of my house would not bring thee a yard. 
But go to — carry thy roisterers elsewhere — to the ale- 
house if they list, and there are crowns to pay your charges 
— make out the day’s madness without doing more mis- 
chief, and be wise men to-morrow — and hereafter learn 
to serve a good cause better than by acting like buffoons 
or ruffians.” 

Obedient to his master’s mandate, the falconer was 
collecting his discouraged followers, and whispering into 
their ears — “ Away, away — tace is Latin for a candle — 
never njnd the good Knight’s puritanism — we will play 
the frolrc out over a stand of double ale in Dame Martin 
the Brewster’s barn-yard — draw off, harp and tabor — 
bagpipe and drum — mum till you are out of the church- 
yard^AAlet the welkin ring again — move on, wolf and 
beary^^Hp tbe hind legs till you cross the kirk-style, and 
theff yourselves beasts of mettle — what devil sent 
him here to spoil our holiday ! — but anger him not, my 
hearts; his lance is no goose-feather, as Dan’s ribs can 
tell.” 

“ By my soul,” said Dan, “ had it been another than 
my ancient comrade, I would have made my father’s old 
fox fly about his ears!”^’^ 

“ Hush ! hush ! man,” replied Adam Woodcock, 
“ not a word that way, as you value the safety of your 
bones — what, man ! we must take a clink as it passes, 
so it is not bestowed in downright ill-will.” 

“ But 1 will take no such thing,” said Dan of the 
Howlethirst, sullenly resisting the efforts of Woodcock, 
who was dragging him out of the church ; when, the 
quick military eye of Sir Halbert Glendinning detecting 
Roland Graeme betwixt his two guards, the Knight ex- 
claimed, “ So ho ! falconer, — Woodcock, — knave, hast 
thou brought my Lady’s page in mine own livery, to as- 
sist at this hopeful revel of thine, with your wolves and 


160 


THE AEBOT. 


bears ? Since you were at such mummings, you might, if 
you would, have at least saved the credit of my house- 
hold, by dressing him up as a jaek-an-apes — bring him 
hither, fellows !” 

Adam Woodcock was too honest and downright, to 
permit blame to light upon the youth, when it was un- 
deserved. “ I swear,” he said, “ by Saint Martin of 
Bullions”^® 

‘‘ And what hast thou to do with Saint Martin 

“ Nay, little enough, sir, unless when he sends such 
rainy days that we rannot fly a hawk — but I say to your 
worshipful knighthood, that as I am a true man” 

“As you are a false varlet, had been the better obtes- 
tation.” 

“ Nay, if your knighthood allows me not to speak,” 
said Adam, “ 1 can hold my tongue — but the kby came 
not hither by my bidding, for all that.” * 

“ But to gratify his own malapert pleasure, I warrant 
me,” said Sir Halbert Glendinning. — “ Come hither, 
young springald, and tell me whether you have^ pu r mis- 
tress’s license to be so far absent from the or to 

dishonour my livery by mingling in such a May*^ame.^” 

“ Sir Halbert Glendinning,” answered Roland Grasme, 
with steadiness, “ I have obtained the permission, or 
rather the commands, of your lady, to dispose of my time 
hereafter according to my own pleasure. I have been a 
most unwilling spectator of this May-game, since it is 
your pleasure so to call it ; and I only wear your livery 
until 1 can obtain clothes which bear no such badge of 
servitude.” 

“ How am I to understand this, young man said 
Sir Halbert Glendinning ; “ speak plainly, for I am no 
reader of riddles. — That my lady favoured thee 1 know. 
What hast thou done to disoblige her, and occasion thy 
dismissal .^” 

“ Nothing to speak of,” said Adam Woodcock, answer- 
ing for the boy — “ a foolish quarrel with me, which was 
more foolishly told over again to my honoured lady, cost 
the poor boy his place. For my part, I will say freely 


TilH AUlJOT. 


161 


that I was wrong from beginning to end, except about the 
washing of the eyas’s meat. There 1 stand to it that I 
was right.” 

With that, the good-natured falconer repeated to his 
master the whole history of the squabble which had 
brought Roland Graeme into disgrace with his mistress, 
but in a manner so favourable for the page, that Sir Hal- 
bert could not but suspect his generous motive. 

“ Thou art a good-natured fellow,” he said, “ Adam 
Woodcock.” 

“ As ever had falcon upon fist,” said Adam ; “ and, 
for that matter, so is Master Roland ; but, being half a 
gentleman by his office, his blood is soon up, and so is 
mine.” 

“ Well,” said Sir Halbert, “ be it as it will, my lady 
has acted hastily, for this was no great matter of offence 
to discard the lad whom she had trained up for years ; 
but he, I doubt not, made it worse by his prating — it 
jumps well with a purpose, however, which I had in my 
mind. Draw off these people, Woodcock — and you, 
Roland Grteme, attend me.” 

The page followed him in silence into the Abbot’s 
house, where, stepping into the first apartment which he 
found open, he commanded one of his attendants, to let 
his brother. Master Edward Glendinning, know that he 
desired to speak with him. The men-at-arms went gladly 
off to join their comrade, Adam Woodcock, and the jolly 
crew whom he had assembled at Dame Martin’s, the hos- 
tler’s wdfe, and the page and Knight were left alone in 
the apartment. Sir Halbert Glendinning paced the floor 
for a moment in silence, and then thus addressed his 
attendant — 

“ Thou rnayest have remarked, stripling, that 1 have 
but seldom distinguished thee by much notice ; — I see 
thy colour rises, but do not speak till thou hearest me out. 
I say, I have never much distinguished thee, not because 
I did not see that in thee which I might well have prais- 
ed, but because I saw something blameable, which such 
14* VOL. I. 


162 


THE ABBOT. 


praises might have made worse. Thy mistress, dealing 
according to her pleasure in her own household, as no 
one hath better reason or title, had picked thee from the 
rest, and treated thee more like a relation than a domes- 
tic ; and if thou didst show some vanity and petulance 
under such distinction, it were injustice not to say that 
thou hast profited both in thy exercises, and in thy breed- 
ing, and hast shown many sparkles of a gentle and manly 
spirit. Moreover, it were ungenerous, having bred thee 
up freakish and fiery, to dismiss thee to want or wander- 
ing, for showing that very peevishness and impatience of 
discipline which arose from thy too delicate nurture. 
Therefore, and for the credit of my own household, I arn 
determined to retain thee in my train, until I can honour- 
ably dispose of thee elsewdiere, with a fair prospect of 
thy going through the world with credit to the house that 
brought thee up.” 

If there was something in Sir Halbert Glendinning’s 
speech which flattered Roland’s pride, there was also 
much that according to his mode of thinking, was an alloy 
to the compliment. And yet his conscience instantly 
told him that he ought to accept, with grateful deference, 
the offer which was made him by the husband of his kind 
protectress ; and his prudence, however slender, could 
not but admit he, should enter the world under very dif- 
ferent auspices as a retainer of Sir Halbert Glendinning, 
so famed for wisdom, courage, and influence, frotn those 
under which he might partake the wanderings, and be- 
come an agent in the visionary schemes, for such they ap- 
peared to him, of Magdalen, his relative. Still, a strong 
reluctance to re-enter a service from which he had been 
dismissed with contempt, almost counterbalanced tiiese 
considerations. 

Sir Halbert looked on the youth with surprise, and re- 
sumed — “ You seem to hesitate, young man. Are your 
own prospects so inviting, that you should pause ere you 
accept those which I offer to you ? or, must I remind 
you that, although you have offended your benefactress, 
even to the point of her dismissing you, yet I am con- 


TIIC ABBOT. 


163 


vinced, the knowledge that you have gone unguided on 
your own wild way, into a world so disturbed as ours of 
Scotland, cannot, in the upshot, but give her sorrow and 
pain ; from which it is, in gratitude, your duty to pre- 
serve her, no less than it is in common wisdom your duty 
to accept my offered protection, for your own sake, 
where body and soul are alike endangered, should you 
refuse it.” 

Roland Greeme replied in a respectful tone, but at the 
same time with some spirit, “ I am not ungrateful for such 
countenance as has been afforded me by the Lord of 
Avenel, and I am glad to learn, for the first time, that I 
have not had the misfortune to be utterly beneath his ob- 
servation, as I had thought — And it is only needful to 
show me how I can testify my duty and my gratitude to- 
wards my early and constant benefactress with my life’s 
hazard, and I will gladly peril it.” He stopped. 

“ These are but words, young man,” answered Glen- 
dinning, large protestations are often used to supply the 
place of effectual service. I know nothing in which the 
peril of your life can serve the Lady of Avenel ; I can 
only say, she will be pleased to learn you have adopted 
some course which may ensure the safety of your person, 
and the weal of your soul — What ails you, that you ac- 
cept not that safety when it is offered you ?” 

“ My only relative who is alive,” answered Roland, 
‘‘ at least the only relative whom I have ever seen, has 
rejoined me since I was dismissed from the Castle of 
Avenel, and I must consult with her whether I can adopt 
the line to which you now call me, or whether her en- 
creasing infirmities, or the authority which she is entitled 
to exercise over me, may not require me to abide with 
her.” 

“ Where is this relation ?” said Sir Halbert Glen- 
dinning. 

“ In this house,” answered the page. 

“ Go, then, and seek her out,” said the Knight of Ave- 
iiel } “ more than meet it is that thou shouldst have her 


164 


THE ABBOT. 


approbation, yet worse than foolish would she show her- 
self in denying it.” 

Roland left the apartment to seek for his grandmother ; 
and, as he retreated, the Abbot entered. 

The tvvoT brothers met as brothers who love each other 
fondly, yet meet rarely together. Such indeed v;as the 
case. Their mutual afiection attached them to each 
other ; but in every pursuit, habit, or sentiment connect- 
ed with the discords of the times, the friend and coun- 
sellor of Murray stood opposed to the Roman Catholic 
priest ; nor, indeed, could they have held very much 
society together, without giving cause of offence and sus- 
picion to their confederates on each side. After a close 
embrace on the part of both, and a welcome on that of 
the Abbot, Sir Halbert Glendinning expressed his satis- 
faction that he had come in time to appease the riot rais- 
ed by Howleglas and his tumultuous followers. 

“ And yet,” he said, “ when I look on your garments, 
brother Edward, I cannot help thinking there still re- 
mains an Abbot of Unreason within the bounds of the 
Monastery.” 

“ And wherefore carp at my garments, brother Hal- 
bert said the Abbot ; “ it is the spiritual armour of 
my calling, and, as such, beseems me as well as breast- 
plate and baldric become your own bosom.” 

“ Ay, but there were small wisdom, methinks, in put- 
ting on armour where we have no power to fight ; it is 
but a dangerous temerity to defy the foe whom we can- 
not resist.” 

“ For that, my brother, no one can answer,” said the 
Abbot, “ until the battle be fought ; and, were it even 
as you say, methinks, a brave man, though desperate oi 
victory, would rather desire to fight and fall, than to re- 
sign sword and shield on some mean and dishonourable 
composition with his insulting antagonist. But, let us not, 
dear Halbert, make discord of a theme on which we can- 
not agree, but rather stay and partake, though a heretic, of 
my admission feast. You need not fear, my brother, that 
your zeal for restoring the primitive discipline of the 


THE ABBOT. 


165 


church will, on this occasion, be offended with the rich 
profusion of a conventual banquet. The days of our 
old friend Abbot Boniface are over ; and the Superior 
of Saint Mary’s has neither forests nor fishings, woods, 
nor pastures, nor corn-fields ; — neither flocks nor herds, 
bucks nor wild-fowl — granaries of wheat, nor storehouses 
of oil and wine, of ale and of mead. The refection- 
er’s office is ended ; and such a meal as a hermit in ro- 
mance can offer to a wandering knight, is all we have to 
set before you. But, if you will share it with us,we shall 
eat it with a cheerful heart, and thank you, my brother, 
for your timely protection against these rude scoffers.” 

“ My dearest Edward,” said the Knight, “ it grieves 
me deeply 1 cannot abide with you ; but it would sound 
ill for us both were one of the reformed congregation to 
sit down at your admission feast ; and, if I can ever have 
the satisfaction of affording you effectual protection, it 
will be much owing to my remaining unsuspected of coun- 
tenancing or approving your religious rites and ceremo- 
nies. It will demand whatever consideration I can ac- 
quire among my own friends, to shelter the bold man, 
who, contrary to law and the edicts of parliament, has 
dared to take up the office of Abbot of Saint Mary’s.” 

“ Trouble not yourself with the task, my brother,” re- 
plied Father Ambrosius. “ I would lay down my dear- 
est blood to know that you defended the church for the 
church’s sake ; but, while you remain unhappily her en- 
emy, I would not that you endangered your own safety, 
or diminished your own comforts, for the sake of my in- 
dividual protection. — But who comes hither to disturb 
the few minutes of fraternal communication which our 
evil fate allows us 

The door of the apartment opened as the Abbot spoke, 
and Dame Magdalen entered. 

“ Who is this woman said Sir Halbert Glendinning, 
somewhat sternly, “ and what does she want 

“ That you know me not,” said the matron, “ signifies 
little ; “ I come by your own order, to give my free con- 
sent that the stripling, Roland Graeme, return to your 


166 


THE ABBOT. 


service ; and, having said so, I cumber you no longer 
with my presence. Peace be with you!” She turned 
to go away, but was stopped by the inquiries of Sir Hal- 
bert Glendinning. 

“ Who are you ^ — what are you ? — and why do you 
not await to make me answer 

“ I was,” she replied, “ while yet I belonged to the 
world, a matron of no vulgar name ; now, I am Magda- 
len, a poor pilgrimer, for the sake of Holy Kirk.” 

“ Yea,” said Sir Halbert, “ art thou a Catholic ? I 
thought my dame said that Roland Graeme came of re- 
formed kin.” 

“ His father,” said the matron, “ was a heretic, or 
rather one who regarded neither orthodoxy nor heresy — 
neither the temple of the church, or of antichrist. I, too, 
for the sins of the times make sinners, have seemed to 
conform to your unhallowed rites — but 1 had my dispen- 
sation and my absolution.” 

“ You see, brother,” said Sir Halbert, with a smile of 
meaning towards the Abbot, “ that we accuse you not 
altogether without grounds of mental equivocation.” 

My brother, you do us injustice,” replied the Abbot ; 
“ this woman, as her bearing may of itself warrant you, 
is not in her perfect mind. Thanks, I must needs say, 
to the persecution of your marauding barons, and of your 
latitudinarian clergy.” 

“ I will not dispute the point,” said Sir Halbert ; “ the 
evils of the time are unhappily so numerous, that both 
churches may divide them, and have enow to spare.” 
So saying, he leaned from the window of the apartment, 
and winded his bugle. 

“ Why do you sound your horn, my brother said the 
Abbot ; “ we have spent but few minutes together.” 

Alas !” said the elder brother, “ and even these few 
have been sullied by disagreement. I sound to horse, 
my brother — the rather that, to avert the consequences 
of this day’s rashness on your part, requires hasty efforts 
on mine. — -Dame, you will oblige me by letting your 
/oung relative know that we mount instantly. 1 intend 


THE ABBOT. 


167 


not that he shall return to Avenel with me — it would lead 
to new quarrels betwixt him and my household ; at least, 
to taunts which his proud heait could ill brook, and rny 
wish is to do him kindness. He shall, therefore, go for- 
ward to Edinburgh with one of my retinue, whom I shall 
send back to say what has chanced here You seem re- 

joiced at this ?” he added, fixing his eyes keenly on 
Magdalen Grseme, who returned his gaze with calm in- 
difference. 

“ 1 would rather,” she said, ‘‘ that Roland, a poor and 
friendless orphan, were the jest of the world at large, 
than of the menials at Avenel.” 

“ Fear not, dame — he shall be scorned by neither,” 
answered the Knight. 

“ It may be,” she replied, — “ it may well be — but I 
will trust more to his own bearing than to your counte- 
nance.” She left the room as she spoke. 

The Knight looked after her as she departed, but turn- 
ed instantly to his brother, and expressing, in the most 
affectionate terms, his wishes for his welfare and happi- 
ness. craved his leave to depart. “ My knaves,” he said, 
“ are too busy at the ale-stand, to leave their revelry for 
the empty breath of a bugle horn.” 

“ You have freed them from higher restraint. Halbert,” 
answered the Abbot, “ and therein taught them to rebel 
against your own.” 

“ Fear not that, Edward,” exclaimed Halbert, who 
never gave his brother his monastic name of Ambrosius; 
“ none obey the command of real duty so well as those 
who are free from the observance of slavish bondage.” 

He was turning to depart, when the Abbot said, — “ Let 
us not yet part, my brother — here comes some light refresh- 
ment. Leave not the house which I must now call mine 
till force expel me from it, until you have at least broken 
bread with me.” 

The poor lay brother, the same who acted as porter, 
now entered the apartment, bearing some simple refresh- 
ment, and a flask of wine. “ He had found it,” he said, 


IG8 


THE ABBOT. 


with officious humility, “ by rummaging through every 
nook of the cellar.” 

The Knight filled a small silver cup, and, quaffing it 
off, asked his brother to pledge him, observing, the wine 
was Bacharac, of the first vintage, and great age. 

“ Ay,” said the poor lay brother, “ it came out of the 
nook which old Brother Nicholas, (may his soul be hap- 
py!) was wont to call Abbot Ingilram’s corner ; and Ab- 
bot Ingilram was bred at the Convent of Wurtzburg, 
which 1 understand to be near where that choice wine 
grows.” 

“ True, my reverend Sir,” said Sir Halbert ; “ and 
therefore I entreat my brother and you to pledge me in 
a cup of this orthodox vintage.” 

The thin old porter looked with a wishful glance to- 
wards the Abbot. “ Do veniam^'^^ said his Superior ; 
and the old man seized, with a trembling hand, a bev- 
erage to which he had been long unaccustomed, drained 
the cup with protracted delight, as if dwelling on the 
flavour and perfume, and set it down with a melancholy 
smile and shake of the head, as if bidding adieu in future 
to such delicious potations. The brothers smiled. But 
when Sir Halbert motioned to the Abbot to take up his 
cup and do him reason, the Abbot, in turn shook his head, 
and replied — “ This is no day for the Abbot of Saint 
Mary’s to eat the fat and drink the sweet. In water from 
our Lady’s well,” he added, filling a cup with the limpid 
element, “ I wish you, my brother, all happiness, and 
above all, a true sight of your spiritual errors.” 

“ And to you, my beloved Edward,” replied Glendin- 
ning, “ I wish the free exercise of your own free reason, 
and the discharge of more important duties than are con- 
nected with the idle name which you have so rashly as- 
sumed.” 

The brothers parted with deep regret ; and yet each, 
confident in his opinion, felt somewhat relieved by 
the absence of one whom he respected so much, and 
with whom he could agree so little. 


THE ABBOT. 


169 


Soon afterwards the sound of the Knight of Avenel’s 
trumpets was heard, and the Abbot went to the top of a 
tower, from whose dismantled battlements he could soon 
see the horsemen ascending the rising ground in the di- 
rection of the drawbridge. As he gazed, Magdalen 
Grjfime came to his side. 

“ Thou art come,” he said, “ to catch the last glimpse 
of thy grandson, my sister. Yonder he wends, under 
the charge of the best knight in Scotland, his faith ever 
excepted.” 

“ Thou canst bear witness, my father, that it was no 
wish either of mine or of Roland’s,” replied the matron, 
“ which induced the Knight of Avenel, as he is called, 
again to entertain my grandson in his household — Heav- 
en, which confounds the wise with their own wisdom, 
and the wicked with their own policy, hath placed him 
where, for the service of the Church, I would most wish 
him to be.” 

“ I know not what you mean, my sister,” said the 
Abbot. 

“ Reverend Father,” replied Magdalen, hast thou 
never heard that there are spirits powerful to rend the 
walls of a castle asunder when once admitted, which yet 
cannot enter the house unless they are invited, nay, drag- 
ged over the threshold Twice hath Roland Graeme 
been thus drawn into the household of Avenel by those 
who now hold the title. Let them look to the issue.” 

So saying, she left the turret ; and the Abbot, after 
pausing a moment on her words, which he imputed to 
the unsettled state of her mind, followed down the wind- 
ing stair to celebrate his admission to his high office by 
fast and prayer, instead of revelling and thanksgiving. 


15 VOL. I. 


170 


THE ABBOT, 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Youth ! thou wear'st to manhood now, 

Darker lip and darker brow, 

Statelier step, more pensive mien ' 

In thy face and gait are seen : - 
Thou must now brook midnight watches. 

Take thy food and sport by snatches I 
For the gambol and the jest, 

Thou wert wont to love the best. 

Graver follies must thou follow, 

But as senseless, false, and hollow. 

Life, a Poem. 

Young Roland Graeme now trotted gaily forward in 
the train of Sir Halbert Glendinning. He was relieved 
from his most galling apprehension, — the encounter of 
the scorn and taunt which might possibly hail his imme- 
diate return to the Castle of Avenel. There will be a 
change ere they see me again, he thought to himself : I 
shall wear the coat of plate instead of the green jerkin, 
and the steel morion for the bonnet and feather. They 
will be bold that may venture to break a gibe on the 
man-at-arms for the follies of the page ; and I trust, that 
ere we return I shall have done something more worthy 
of note, than hallooing a hound after a deer, or scram- 
' bling a crag for a kite’s nest. He could not, indeed, 
help marvelling that his grandmother, vyith all her relig- 
ious prejudices, leaning it would seem to the other side, 
had consented so readily to his re-entering the service 
of the House of Avenel ; and yet more, at the mysteri- 
ous joy with which she took leave of him at the Abbey. 

“ Heaven,” said the dame, as she kissed her young 
relation, and bade him farewell, “ works its own w’ork, 
even by the hands of those of our enemies who think 
themselves the strongest and the wisest. Thou, my 


THE ABBOT. 


171 


child, be ready to act upon the call of thy religion 
and country j and remember, each earthly bond which 
thou canst form, is, compared to the ties vvhicli bind thee 
to them, like the loose flax to the twisted cable. Thou 
hast not forgot the face or form of the damsel, Catherine 
Seyton 

Roland would have replied in the negative, but the 
word seemed to stick in his throat, and Magdalen con- 
tinued her exhortations. 

“ Thou must not forget her, my son ; and here I in- 
trust thee with a token, which 1 trust thou wilt speedily 
find an opportunity of delivering with care and secrecy 
into her own hand.” 

She put here into Roland’s hand a very small packet, 
of which she again enjoined him to take the strictest 
care, and to suffer it to be seen by no one save Cather- 
ine Seyton, who,she again (very unnecessarily) reminded 
him, was the young maiden he had met on the preced- 
ing day. She then bestowed on him her solemn bene- 
diction, and bade God speed him. 

There was something in her manner and her conduct 
which implied mystery ; but Roland Graeme was not of 
an age or temper to waste much time in endeavouring to 
decipher her meaning. All that was obvious to his per- 
ception in the present journey, promised pleasure and 
novelty. He rejoiced that he was travelling towards 
Edinburgh, in order to assume the character of a man, 
and lay aside that of a boy. He was delighted to think 
that he would have an opportunity of rejoining Cathe- 
rine Seyton, whose bright eyes and lively manners had 
made so favourable an impression on his imagination ; 
and, as an inexperienced, yet high-spirited youth, enter- 
ing for the first time upon active life, his heart bounded 
at the thought, that be was about to see all those scenes 
of courtly splendour and warlike adventures, of which 
the followers of Sir Halbert used to boast on their occa- 
sional visits to Avenel, to the wonderment and envy of 
those who, like Roland, knew courts and camps only by 
liearsay, and were condemned to the solitary sports and 


172 


THE ABBOT. 


almost monastic seclusion of Avenel, surrounded by its 
lonely lake, and embosomed among its pathless moun- 
tains. They shall mention my name, he said to himself, 
if the risk of my life can purchase me opportunities of 
distinction, and Catherine Seyton’s saucy eye shall rest 
with more respect on the distinguished soldier, than that 
with which she laughed to scorn the raw and inexperi- 
enced page. There was wanting but one accessary to 
complete the sense of rapturous excitation, and he pos- 
sessed it by being once more mounted on the back of a 
fiery and active horse, instead of plodding along on foot, 
as had been the case during the preceding days. 

Impelled by the liveliness of his own spirits, which so 
many circumstances tended naturally to exalt, Roland 
Grasme’s voice and his laughter were soon distinguished 
amid the trampling of the horses of the retinue, and more 
than once attracted the attention of their leader, who 
remarked with satisfaction, that the youth replied with 
good-humoured raillery to such of the train as jested 
with him on his dismissal and return to the service of the 
House of Avenel. 

“ 1 thought the holly-branch in your bonnet had been 
blighted, Master Roland said one of the men-at-arms. 

“ Only pinched with half an hour’s frost ; you see it 
flourishes as green as ever.” 

“ It is too grave a plant to flourish on so hot a soil as 
that head-piece of thine. Master Roland Grteme,” re- 
torted the other, who was an old equerry of Sir Halbert 
Glendinning. 

“ If it will not flourish alone,” said Roland, “ I will 
mix it with the laurel and the myrtle — and I will carry 
them so near the sky, that it shall make amends for their 
stinted growth.” 

Thus speaking, he dashed bis spurs into his horse’s 
sides, and checking him at the same time, compelled him 
to execute a lofty caracple. Sir Halbert Glendinning 
looked at the demeanour of his new attendant with that 
sort of melancholy pleasure with which those who have 


THE ABBOT. 


173 


long followed the pursuits of life, and are sensible of their 
vanity, regard the gay, young, and buoyant spirits, to 
whom existence, as yet, is only hope and promise. 

In the meanwhile, Adam Woodcock, the falconer, strip- 
ped of his masking habit, and attired, according to his rank 
and calling, in a green jerkin, with a hawking-bag on the 
one side, and a short hanger on the other, a glove on his 
eft hand which reached half way up his arm, and a bon- 
net and feather upon his head, came after the party as 
fast as his active little galloway-nag could trot, and im- 
mediately entered into parley with Roland Graeme. 

“ So, my youngster, you are once more under shadow 
of the holly-branch f” 

“ And in case to repay you, my good friend,” an- 
swered Roland, “ your ten groats of silver.” 

“ Which, but an hour since,” said the falconer, “you 
had nearly paid me with ten inches of steel. On my 
faith, it is written in the book of our destiny, that I must 
brook your dagger, after all.” 

“ Nay, speak not of that, my good friend,” said the 
youth, “ I would rather have broached my own bosom 
than yours ; but who could have known you in the mum- 
ming dress you wore .^” 

“ Yes,” the falconer resumed, — for both as a poet 
and actor he had his own professional share of self-con- 
ceit, — “ I think I was as good an Howleglas as ever 
played part at a Shrovetide revelry, and not a much 
worse Abbot of Unreason. I defy the Old Enemy to 
unmask me when 1 choose to keep my vizard on. What 
the devil brought the Knight on us before we had the 
game out ? You would have heard me hollo my own 
new ballad with a voice should have reached to Berwick. 
But, I pray you. Master Roland, be less free of cold 
steel on slight occasions; since, but for the stuffing of rny 
reverend doublet, I had only left the kirk, to take my 
place in the kirk-yard.” 

15 * VOL. I, 


174 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Nay, spare me that feud,” said Roland Graeme 
“ vve shall have no time to fight it out ; for, by our lord’s 
command, I am bound for Edinburgh.” 

“ I know it,” said Adam Woodcock, “ and even 
therefore vve shall have time to solder up this rent by the 
way, for Sir Halbert has appointed me your companion 
and guide.” 

“ Ay ? and with what purpose ?” said the page. 

“ That,” said the falconer, “ is a question 1 cannot 
answer ; but I know, that be the food of the eyasses 
washed or unwashed, and, indeed, whatever becomes 
of perch and mew, I am to go with you to Edinburgh, 
and see you safely delivered to the Regent at Holy- 
rood.” 

“ How, to the Regent?” said Roland, in surprise. 

“ Ay, by my faith, to the Regent,” replied Wood- 
cock ; “ 1 promise you, that if you are not to enter his 
service, at least you are to wait upon him in the charac- 
ter of a retainer of our Knight of Avenel.” 

“ I know no right,” said the youth, “ which the 
Knight of Avenel hath to transfer my service, supposing 
that 1 owe it to himself.” 

“ Hush, hush !” said the falconer, “ that is a ques- 
tion I advise no one to stir in until he has the mountain 
or the lake, or the march of another kingdom, which is 
better than either, betwixt him and his feudal superior.” 

“ But Sir Halbert Glendinning,” said the youth, “ is 
not my feudal superior ; nor has he ought of authority — ” 

“ I pray you, my son, to rein your tongue,” answered 
Adam Woodcock ; “ my lord’s displeasure, if you pro- 
v^oke it, will be worse to appease than my lady’s. The 
touch of his least finger were heavier than her hardest 
blow. And, by my faith, he is a man of steel, as true 
and as pure, but as hard and as pifiless. You remember 
the Cock of Capperlawe, whom he hanged over his gate 
for a mere mistake — a poor yoke of oxen taken in Scot- 
land, when he thought lie was taking them in English 
land ? I loved the Cock of Capperlawe j the Kerrs had 
not an honester man in their clan, and they have had 


the abbot. 


175 


men that might have been a pattern to the Border— men 
that would not have lifted under twenty cows at once, 
and would have held themselves dishonoured if they had 
taken a drift of sheep, or the like, but always manao-ed 
their raids in full credit and honour.— But see, his w^'or- 

ship halts, and we are close by the bridge. Ride up 

ride up — we must have his last instructions.” 

It was as Adam Woodcock said. In the hollow way 
descending towards the bridge, which was still in the 
guardianship of Peter Bridgeward, as he was called, 
though he was now very old, Sir Halbert Glendinning 
halted his retinue, and beckoned to Woodcock and 
Graeme to advance to the head of the train. 

“ Woodcock,” said he, “ thou knowest to whom thou 
art to conduct this youth. And thou, young man, obey 
discreetly, and with diligence, the orders that shall be 
given thee. Curb thy vain and peevish temper. Be 
just, true, and faithful, and there is in thee that which 
may raise thee many a degree above thy present station. 
Neither shalt thou — always supposing thine efforts to be 
fair and honest — want the protection and countenance of 
Avenel.” 

Leaving them in front of the bridge, the centre tower 
of which now began to cast a prolonged shade upon the 
river, the Knight of Avenel turned to the left, without 
crossing the river, and pursued his way towards the chain 
of bills within whose recesses are situated the Lake and 
Castle of Avenel. There remained behind, the falcon- 
er, Roland Graeme, and a domestic of the Knight, of in- 
ferior rank, who was left with them to look after their 
horses while on the road, to carry their baggage, and to 
attend to their convenience. 

So soon as the more numerous body of riders had 
turned off to pursye tlteir journey westward, those whose 
route lay across fhe river, and was directed towards the 
North, summoned the Bridgeward, and demanded a free 
passage. 

“ I will not lower the bridge,” answered Peter, in a 
voice querulous with age and ill-humour. “ Come Pa- 


176 


THE ABBOT. 


pist, come Protestant, ye are all the same. The Papists 
threatened us with purgatory, and fleeched us with par- 
dons ; — the Protestant mints at us with the sword, and 
cuittles us with the liberty of conscience ; but never 
a one of either says ‘ Peter, there is your penny.’ 1 
am well tired of all this, and for no man shall the bridge 
fall that pays me not ready money ; and I would have 
you know 1 care as little for Geneva as for Rome — as 
little for homilies as for pardons ; and the silver pennies 
are the only passports I will hear of.” 

“ Here is a proper old chuff!” said Woodcock to his 
companion ; then raising his voice, he exclaimed, 
“ Hark thee, dog — Bridgevvard, villain, dost thou think 
we have refused thy namesake Peter’s pence to Rome, to 
pay thine at the Bridge of Kennaquhair? Let thy bridge 
down instantly to the followers of the house of Avenel, or, 
by the hand of my father, and that handled many a bridle 
rein, for he was a bluff Yorkshire-man — I say, by my 
father’s hand, our Knight will blow thee out of thy so- 
lan-goose’s nest there in the middle of the water, with 
the light falconet which we are bringing southward from 
Edinburgh to-morrow.” 

The Bridgeward heard, and muttered, “ A plague on 
falcon and falconet, on cannon and derni-cannon, and all 
the barking bull-dogs whom they halloo against stone 
and lime in these our days ! It was a merry time when 
there was little besides handy blows, and it may be a 
flight of arrows that harmed an ashler wall as little as so 
many hail-stones. But we must jowk, and let the jaw 
gang by.” Comforting himself in his state of dimin- 
ished consequence with this pithy old proverb, Peter 
Bridgeward lowered the drawbridge, and permitted them 
to pass over. At the sight of his white hair, albeit it dis- 
covered a visage equally peevish through age and misfor- 
tune, Roland was inclined to give him an alms, but Adam 
Woodcock prevented him. “ E’en let him pay the pen- 
alty of his former churlishness and greed,” he said ; 
“ the wolf, when he has lost his teeth, should be treated 
no better than a cur.” 


THE ABBOT. 


177 


Leaving the Bridgevvard to lament the alteration of 
times, which sent domineering soldiers, and feudal 
retainers, to his place of passage, instead of peaceful 
pilgrims, and reduced him to become the oppressed, in- 
stead of playing the extortioner, the travellers turned 
them northward ; and Adam Woodcock, well acquaint- 
ed with that part of the country, proposed to cut short a 
considerable portion of the road, by traversing the little 
vale of Glendearg, so famous for the adventures which 
befell therein during the earlier part of the Benedictine’s 
manuscript. With these, and with the thousand com- 
mentaries, representations, and misrepresentations, to 
which they had given rise, Roland Grseme was, of course, 
well acquainted ; for in the Castle of Avenel, as w^ell as 
in other great establishments, the inmates talked of noth- 
ing so often, or with such pleasure, as of the private af- 
fairs of their lord and lady. But while Roland was 
viewing with interest these haunted scenes, in which 
things were said to have passed beyond the ordinary 
laws of nature, Adam Woodcock was still regretting in 
his secret soul the unfinished revel and the unsung bal- 
lad, and kept every now and then breaking out with some 
such verses as these : — 

The Friars of Fail drank berry-brown ale, 

The best that e’er was tasted ; 

The JMonks of Melrose made glide kale 
On Fridays, when they fasted. 

Saint Monance’ sister, 

The grey priest kist her — 

Fiend save the company ! 

Sing hey trix 
Trim-go-trix, 

Under the greenwood tree!” 

“ By my hand, friend Woodcock,” said the page, 
“ though I know you for a hardy gospeller, that fear 
neither saint nor devil, yet if 1 were you, I would not 
sing your profane songs in this valley of Glendearg, con- 
sidering w'hat has happened here before our time.” 


178 


THE ABBOT. 


‘‘ A straw for your wandering spirits !” said Adam 
Woodcock ; “ I mind them no more than an earn cares 
for a string of wild-geese — they have all fled since the 
pulpits were filled with honest men, and the people’s ears 
with sound doctrine. Nay, I have a touch at them in my 
ballad, an I had but had the good luck to have it sung to 
end and again he set off in the same key : 

From haunted spring^ and grassy ring, 

Troop, goblin, elf, and fairy ; 

And the kelpie must flit from the black bog-pit. 

And the brownie must not tarry ; 

To Limbo-lake, 

Their way they take. 

With scarce the pith to flee. 

Sing hey trix, 

Trim-go-trix, 

Under the greenwood tree 1 

“I think,” be added, “that could Sir Halbert’s pa- 
tience have stretched till we came that length, he would 
have had a hearty laugh, and that is what he seldom 
enjoys.” 

“ If it be all true that men tell of his early life,” said 
Roland, “ he has less right to laugh at goblins than most 
men.” 

“ Ay, if it be all true,” answered Adam Woodcock ; 
“ but who can insure us of that ? Moreover, these were 
hut tales the monks used to gull us simple laymen withal ; 
they knew that fairies and hobgoblins brought aves and 
paternosters into repute ; but, now we have given up 
worship of images in wood and stone, methinks it were 
no time to be afraid of bubbles in the water, or shadows 
in the air.” 

“ However,” said Roland Grasme, “ as the Catholics say 
they do not worship wood or stone, but only as emblems 
of the holy saints, and not as things holy in themselves — ” 

“ Pshaw ! pshaw !” answered the falconer ; “ a rush 
for their prating. They told us another story when these 
baptized idols of theirs brought pike-staves and sandal- 


THE ABBOT. 


179 


led shoon from all the four winds, and whillied the old 
women out of their corn and their candle-ends, and their 
butter, bacon, wool and cheese, and when not so much 
as a grey groat escaped tything.’’ 

Roland Graeme had been long taught, by necessity, to 
consider his form of religion as a profound secret, and to 
say nothing whatever in its defence when assailed, lest 
he should draw on himself the suspicion of belonging to 
the unpopular and exploded church. He therefore suf- 
fered Adam Woodcock to triumph without farther oppo- 
sition, marvelling in his own mind whether any of the 
goblins, formerly such active agents, would avenge his 
rude raillery before they left the valley of Glendearg. 
But no such consequences followed. They passed the 
night quietly in a cottage in the glen, and the next day 
resumed their route to Edinburgh. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Edina ! Scotia’s darling seat, 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 

Where once, beneath a monarch’s fsfit, 

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! 

Burns. 

“ This then, is Edinburgh said the youth, as the 
fellow-travellers arrived at one of the heights to the 
southward, which commanded a view of the great north- 
ern capital ‘‘ This is that Edinburgh of which we have 

heard so much 

<< Even so,” said the falconer; “ yonder stands Auld 
pjeekie — you may see the smoke hover over her at 
twenty miles distance, as the goss-hawk hangs over a 
plump of young wild-ducks — ay, yonder is the heart of 
Scotland, and each throb that she gives is felt from the 
edge of Solway to Duncan’s-bay head. See, yonder is 


180 


THE ABBOT. 


the old Castle ; and see to the right, on yon rising ground, 
that is the castle of Craigmillar, which 1 have known a 
merry place in my time.” 

“ Was it not there,” said the page in a low voice ; 
“ that the Queen held her court 

“ Ay, ay,” replied the falconer, “ Queen she was 
then, though you must not call her so now. Well, they 
may say what they will — many a true heart will be sad 
for Mary Stuart, e’en if all be true men say of her ; for 
look you. Master Roland — she was the loveliest creature 
to look upon that I ever saw with eye, and no lady in the 
land liked better the fair flight of a falcon. 1 was at the 
great match on Roslin-moor betwixt Bothwell — he w'as 
a black sight to her that Bothwell — and the Baron of 
Roslin, who could judge a hawk’s flight as well as any 
man in Scotland — a butt of Rhenish and a ring of gold 
was the wager, and it w^as flown as fairly for as ever was 
red gold and bright wine. And to see her there on her 
white palfrey, that flew as if it scorned to touch more 
than the heather blossom ; and to hear her voice, as clear 
and sweet as the mavis’s whistle, mix among our jolly 
whooping and whistling, and to mark all the nobles dash- 
ing round her ; happiest he who got a word or a look — 
tearing through moss and hagg, and venturing neck and 
limb to gain the praise of a bold rider, and the blink of 
a bonnie Queen’s bright eye— she will see little hawking 
where she lies now — ay, ay, pomp and pleasure pass 
away as speedily as the wap of a falcon’s wing.” 

“ And wdiere is this poor Queen now confined said 
Roland Graeme, interested in the fate of a woman, whose 
beauty and grace had made so strong an impression even 
on the blunt and careless character of Adam Woodcock. 

“ Where is she now imprisoned said honest A- 

dam ; “ why, in some castle in the north, they say I 

know not where, for my part, nor is it worth while to vex 
one’s self anent what cannot be mended — An she had 
guided her power well whilst she had it, she had not 
come to so evil a pass. Men say she must resign her 
crown to this little baby of a prince, for that they will 


THE ABBOT. 


181 


trust her with it no longer. Our master has been as 
busy as his neighbours in all this work. If the Queen 
should come to her own again, Avenel Castle is like to 
smoke for it, unless he makes his bargain all the better.” 

“ In a castle in the north Queen Mary is confined 
said the page. 

“ Why, ay — they say so at least — In a castle beyond 
that great river which comes down yonder, and looks 
like a river, but it is a branch of the sea, and as bitter as 
brine.” 

“ And amongst all her subjects,” said the page, with 
some emotion, “ is there none that will adventure any- 
thing for her relief 

“ That is a kittle question,” said the falconer ; “ and 
if you ask it often. Master Roland, I am fain to tell you 
that you will be mewed up yourself in some of those 
castles, if they do not prefer twisting your head off, to 
save farther trouble with you— rAdventure anything F 
Lord why, Murray has the wind in his poop now, man, 
and flies so high, and strong, that the devil a wing of 
them can match him — No, no, there she is, and there she 
must lie, till Heaven send her deliverance, or till her son 
has the management of all — But Murray will never let 
her loose again, he knows her too well. — And hark thee, 
we are now bound for Holyrood, where thou wilt find 
plenty of news and of courtiers to tell it — But, take my 
counsel, and keep a calm sough, as the Scots say — hear 
every man’s counsel, and keep your own. And if you 
hap to learn any news you like, leap not up as if you 
were to put on armour direct in the cause — Our old Mr. 
Wingate says — and he knows court-cattle well — that if 
you are told old King Coul is come alive again, you should 
turn it off with ‘ And is he, in truth — I heard not of 
it,’ and should seem no more moved, than if one told 
you, by way of novelty, that old King Coul was dead and 
buried. Wherefore, look well to your bearing. Master 
Roland, for, I promise you, you come among a genera- 
tion that are keen as a hungry hawk — And never be dag- 
16 von. I. 


182 


THE ABBOT. 


ger out of sheath at every wry word you hear spoken ; 
for you will find as hot blades as yourself, and then will 
be letting of blood without advice either of leech or al- 
manack.” 

“ You shall see how staid I will be, and how cautious, 
my good friend,” said Graeme ; “ but, blessed Lady ! 
what goodly house is that which is lying all in ruins so 
close to the city ? Have they been playing at the Abbot 
of Unreason here, and ended the gambol by burning the 
church f” 

“ There again now,” replied his companion, “ you go 
down the wind like a wild haggard, that minds neither 
lure nor beck — that is a question you should have asked 
in as low a tone as I shall answer it.” 

“ If I stay here long,” said Roland Grasrne, “ it is like 
I shall lose the natural use of my voice — but what are 
the ruins then 

“ The Kirk of Field,” said the falconer, in a low and 
impressive whisper, laying at the same time his finger on 
his lip, “ ask no more about it — somebody got foul play, 
and somebody got the blame of it ; and the game began 
there which perhaps may not be played out in our lime. 
Poor Henry Darnley ! to be an ass, he understood some- 
what of a hawk ! but they sent him on the wing through 
the air himself, one bright moonlight night.” 

The memory of this catastrophe was so recent, that 
the page averted his eyes with horror from the scathed 
ruins in which it had taken place ; and the accusations 
against the Queen, to which it had given rise, came over 
his mind with such strength as to balance the compassion 
he had begun to entertain for her present forlorn situation. 

It was, indeed, with that agitating state of mind which 
arises partly from horror, but more from anxious interest 
and curiosity, that young Grasrne found himself actually 
traversing the scene of those tremendous events, the re- 
port of which had disturbed the most distant solitudes in 
Scotland, like the echoes of distant thunder rolling 
among the mountains. 


THE ABBOT. 


183 


‘‘Now,” hethoiigiitj^nowor never shall 1 become a man, 
and bear my part in those deeds which the simple inhab- 
itants of our hamlets repeat to each other as if they were 
wrought by beings of a superior order to their own ! I 
will know now, wherefore the Knight of Avenel carries 
his crest so much above those of the neighbouring bar- 
onage, and how it is that men, by valour and wisdom, 
work their way from the hoddin-grey coat to the cloak of 
scarlet and gold. Men say I have not much wisdom to 
recon)mend me ; and if that be true, courage must do 
it, for I will be a man amongst living men, or a dead 
corpse amongst the dead.” 

From these dreams of ambition he turned his thoughts 
to those of pleasure, and began to form many conjectures 
when and where he should see Catherine Seyton, and in 
what manner their acquaintance was to be renewed. 
With such conjectures he was amusing himself, when he 
found that they had entered the city, and all other feel- 
ings were suspended in the sensation of giddy astonish- 
ment with which an inhabitant of the country is affect- 
ed, when, for the first time, he finds himself in the streets 
of a large and populous city, an unit in the midst of 
thousands. 

The principal street of Edinburgh was then, as now, 
one of the most spacious in Europe. The extreme 
height of the houses, and the variety of Gothic gables 
and battlements, and balconies, by which the sky-line on 
each side was crowned and terminated, together with the 
width of the street itself, might have struck with surprise 
a more practised eye than that of young GraBtne. The 
population, close packed within the walls of the city, and 
at this time increased by the number of the lords of the 
King’s party who had thronged to Edinburgh to wait 
upon the Regent Murray, absolutely swarmed like bees 
on the wide and stately street. Instead of the shop- 
windows, which are now calculated for the display of 
goods, the traders had their open booths projecting on the 
street, in which, as in the fashion of the modern bazaars, 
all was exposed which they had upon sale. And though 


184 


THE ATiBOT. 


the commodities were not of the richest kinds, yet Graeme 
thought he beheld the wealth of the whole world in the 
various bales of Flanders cloths, and the specimens of 
tapestry ; and, at other places, the display of domestic 
utensils, and pieces of plate, struck him with won- 
der. The sight of cutlers’ booths, furnished with swords 
and poniards, which were manufactured in Scotland, and 
with pieces of defensive armour, imported from Flanders, 
added to his surprise ; and, at every step, he found so 
much to admire and to gaze upon, that Adam Woodcock 
had no little difficulty in prevailing on him to advance 
through such a scene of enchantment. 

The sight of the crowds which filled the streets was 
equally a subject of wonder. Here a gay lady, in her 
muffler, or silken veil, traced her way delicately, a gen- 
tleman-usher making way for her, a page bearing up her 
train, and a waiting genilewmman carrying her Bible, thus 
intimating that her purpose was towards the church — 
There he might see a group of citizens bending the same 
way, with their short Flemish cloaks, wide trowsers, and 
high-caped doublets, a fashion to which, as well as to 
their bonnet and feather, the Scots were long faithful. 
Then, again, came the clergyman himself, in his black 
Geneva cloak and band, lending a grave and attentive 
ear to the discourse of several persons who accompanied 
him, and who were doubtless holding serious converse 
on the religious subject he was about to treat of. Nor 
did there lack passengers of a different class and ap- 
pearance. 

At every turn, Roland Graeme might see a gallant ruf- 
fle along in the newer or French mode, his doublet slash- 
ed, and his points of the same colours with the lining, his 
long sword on one side, and his poniard on the other, 
behind him a body of stout serving-men, proportioned to 
his estate and quality, all of whom walked with the air 
of military retainers, and were armed with sword and 
buckler, the latter being a small round shield, not unlike 
the Highland target, having a steel spike in the centre. 
Two of these parties, eacli headed by a person of im- 


THE ABBOT. 


185 


portance, chanced to meet in the very centre of the 
street, or, as it was called, “ the crown of the cause- 
way,” a post of honour as tenaciously asserted in Scot- 
land, as that of giving or taking the wall used to be in the 
more southern part of the island. The two leaders be- 
ing of equal rank, and, most probably, either animated 
by political dislike, or by recollection of some feudal en- 
mity, marched close up to each other, without yielding an 
inch to the right or the left ; and neither showing the 
least purpose of giving way, they stopped for an instant, 
and then drew their swords. Their followers imitated 
their example ; about a score of weapons at once flash- 
ed in the sun, and there was an immediate clatter of 
swords, and bucklers, while the followers on either side 
cried their master’s name ; the one shouting “ Help, a 
Leslie ! a Leslie !” While the others answered with 
shouts of “ Seyton ! Seyton !” with the additional pun- 
ning slogan, “ Set on, set on — bear the knaves to the 
ground!” 

If the falconer found difficulty in getting the page to 
go forward before, it was now perfectly impossible. He 
reined up his horse, clapped his hands, and, delighted 
with the fray, cried and shouted as fast as any of those 
who were actually engaged in it. 

The noise and cries thus arising on the High-gate, as 
it was called, drew into the quarrel two or three other 
parties of gentlemen and their servants, besides some 
single passengers, who, hearing a fray betwixt these 
two distinguished names, took part in it, either for love 
or hatred. 

The combat became now very sharp, and although 
the sword-and-buckler-men made more clatter and noise 
than they did real damage, yet several good cuts were 
dealt among them ; and those who wore rapiers, a more 
formidable weapon than the ordinary Scottish sword, 
gave and received dangerous wounds. Two men were 
already stretched on the causeway, and the party of 
Seyton began to give ground, being much inferior in 
16 * VOL. I. 


186 


THE ABBOT. 


number to the other, with which several of the citizens 
had united themselves, when young Roland Graeme, be- 
holding their leader, a noble gentleman, fighting brave- 
ly, and hard pressed with numbers, could withhold no 
longer. “ Adam Woodcock,” he said, “ an you be a 
man, draw, and let us take part with the Seyton.” And, 
without waiting a reply, or listening to the falconer’s ear- 
nest entreaty, that he would leave alone a strife in which 
he had no concern, the fiery youth sprung from his horse, 
drew his short sword, and shoutinglike the rest, “ A Sey- 
ton ! a Seyton ! Set on ! Set on !” thrust forward into the 
throng, and struck down one of those who was pressing 
hardest upon the gentleman whose cause he espoused. 
This sudden reinforcement gave spirit to the weaker 
party, who began to renew the combat with much alacrity, 
when four of the magistrates of the city, distinguished 
by their velvet cloaks and gold chains, came up with a 
guard of halberdiers and citizens, armed with long wea- 
pons, and well accustomed to such service, thrust boldly 
forward, and compelled the swordsmen to separate, who 
immediately retreated in different directions, leaving such 
of the wounded on both sides, as had been disabled in 
the fray, lying on the street. 

The falconer, who had been tearing his beard for anger 
at his comrade’s rashness, now rode up to him with the 
horse which he had caught by the bridle, and accosted him 
yvith “ Master Roland — master goose — master madcap 
— will it please you to get on horse and budge ? or will 
you remain here to be carried to prison, and made to 
answer for this pretty day’s work ?” 

The page, who had begun his retreat along with the 
Seytons, just as if he had been one of their natural 
allies, was by this unceremonious application n)ade 
sensible that he was acting a foolish part ; and, obeying 
Adam Woodcock, with some sense of shame, he sprung 
actively on horseback, and upsetting with the shoulder 
of the animal, a city -officer, who was making towards 
him, he began to ride smartly down the street, along 
with his companion, and was quickly out of the reach 


THE ABBOT. 


187 


of the hue and cry. In fact, rencounters of the kind 
were so common in Edinburgh at that period, that the 
disturbance seldom excited much attention after the 
affray was over, unless some person of consequence 
chanced to have fallen, an incident which imposed on 
his friends the duty of avenging his death on the first 
convenient opportunity. So feeble, indeed, was the arm 
of the police, that it was not unusual for such skirmishes 
to last for hours, where the parties were numerous and 
well matched. But at this time, the Regent, a man of 
great strength of character, aware of the mischief which 
usually arose from such acts of violence, had prevailed 
with the magistrates to keep a constant guard on foot 
for preventing or separating such affrays as had happen- 
ed in the present case. 

The falconer and his young companion were now rid- 
ing down the Canongate, and had slackened their pace 
to avoid attracting attention, the rather that there aeern- 
ed to be no appearance of pursuit. Roland hung his 
head as one who was conscious his conduct had been 
none of the wisest, while his companion thus addressed 
him. 

“ Will you be pleased to tell me one thing. Master 
Roland Graeme, and that is, whether there be a devil 
incarnate in you or no ?” 

“Truly, Master Adam Woodcock,” answered the 
page, “ 1 would fain hope there is not.” 

“ Then,” said Adam, “ I would fain know by what 
other influence or instigation you are perpetually at one 
end or the other of some bloody brawl f What, 1 pray, 
had you to do with these Seytons and Leslies, that you 
never heard the names of in your life before f” 

“You are out there, my friend,” said Roland Grasme, 
“ I have my own reasons for being a friend to the Sey- 
tons.” 

“ They must have been very secrei reasons then,” 
answered Adam Woodcock, “ for I think I could have 
wagered, you had never known one of the name ; and 1 
am apt to believe still, tliat it was your unhallowed 


188 


TIIE ABBOT. 


passion for that clashing of cold iron, which has as much 
charm for you as the clatter of a brass pan hath for a 
hive of bees, rather than any care either lor Seyton or 
for Leslie, that persuaded you to thrust your fool’s 
head into a quarrel that nowise concerned you. But 
take this for a warning, my young master, that if you 
are to draw sword with every man who draws sword on 
the High-gate here, it will be scarce w'orth your while 
to sheathe bilbo again for the rest of your life, since, 
if 1 guess rightly, it will scarce endure on such terms 
for many hours — all which I leave to your serious con- 
sideration.” 

“By my word, Adam, I honour your advice; and I 
promise you, that T will practise by it as faithfully as if 
I were sworn apprentice to you, to the trade and mys- 
tery of bearing myself with all wisdom and safety through 
the new paths of life that I am about to be engaged in.” 

“ And therein you will do well,” said the falconer ; 
“ and I do not quarrel with you, Master Roland, for 
having a grain over much spirit, because 1 know one 
may bring to the hand a wild hawk, which one never 
can a dunghill hen — and so betwixt two faults you have 
the best side on’t. But besides your peculiar genius for 
quarrelling and lugging out your side companion, my 
dear Master Roland, you have also the gift of peering 
under every woman’s muffler and screen, as if you ex- 
pected to find an old acquaintance. Though w'ere you 
to spy one, I should be as much surprised at it, well 
wotting how few you have seen of these same wild-fowl, 
as I was at your taking so deep an interest even now in 
the Seyton.” 

“Tush, man ! nonsense and folly,” answered Roland 
Graeme, “ I but sought to see what eyes these gentle 
hawks have got under their hood.” 

“ Ay, but it’s a dangerous subject of inquiry,” said the 
falconer ; “you^had better hold out your bare wrist for 
an eagle to perch upon. — Look you. Master Roland, these 
pretty wild-geese cannot be hawked at without risk — 
tliey have as many divings, boltings, and volleyings, as 


THE ABBOT. 


189 


the most gamesome quarry that falcon ever flew at — And 
besides, every woman of them is manned with her hus- 
band, or her kind friend, or her brother, or her cousin, 
or her sworn servant at the least — But you heed me not. 
Master Roland, though I know the game so well — your 
eye is all on that pretty damsel who trips down the gate 
before us — by my certes, I will warrant her a blithe dan- 
cer either in reel or revel — a pair of silver morisco bells 
would become these pretty ancles as well as the jesses 
would suit the fairest Norway hawk.” 

“ Thou art a fool, Adam,” said the page, “ and I care 
not a button about the girl or her ancles — But what the 
foul fiend, one must look at something !” 

“ Very true. Master Roland Graeme,” said his guide, 
“ but let me pray you to choose your objects better. 
Look you, there is scarce a woman walks this High-gate 
with a silk screen or a pearlin muffler, but, as I said be- 
fore, she has either gentleman usher before her, or kins- 
man, or lover, or husband, at her elbow, or it may be a 
brace of stout fellows with sword and buckler, not so far 
behind but what they can follow close — But you heed 
me no more than a goss-hawk minds a yellow yoldring.” 

“ O yes, I do — I do mind you indeed,” said Roland 
Graeme ; “ but hold my nag a bit — 1 will be with you in 
the exchange of a whistle.” So saying, and ere Adam 
Woodcock could finish the sermon which was dying on 
his tongue, Roland Graeme, to the falconer’s utter aston- 
ishment, threw him the bridle of his jennet, jumped off 
horseback, and pursued down one of the closes or narrow 
lanes, which opening under a vault, terminate upon the 
main street, the very maiden to whom his friend had ac- 
cused him of showing so much attention, and who had 
turned down the pass in question. 

“ Saint Mary, Saint Magdalen, Saint Benedict, Saint 
Barnabas !” cried the poor falconer, when he found him- 
self thus suddenly brought to a pause in the midst of the 
Canongate, and saw his young charge start off like a 
madman in quest of a damsel whom he had never, as 
Adam supposed, seen in his life before, — “ Saint Satan 


190 


THE ABBOT. 


and Saint Beelzebub — for this would make one svvear 
saint and devil — what can have come over the lad, with a 
wanion ! — And what shall 1 do the whilst?— he will have 
his throat cut, the poor lad, as sure as I was horn at the 
foot of Roseberry-Topping. Could I find some one to 
hold the horses ! but they are as sharp here north-away 
as in canny Yorkshire herself, and quit bridle, quit tilt, 
as we say. An I could but see one of our folks now, 
a holly-sprig were worth a gold tassel ; or could 1 hut 
see one of the Regent’s men — but to leave the hoi-ses to 
a stranger, that I cannot — and to leave the place while 
the lad is in jeopardy, that I wonot.” 

We must leave the falconer, however, in the midst of 
his distress, and follow the hot-headed youth who was 
the cause of his perplexity. 

The latter part of Adam Woodcock’s sage remon- 
strance had been in a great measure lost upon Roland, 
for whose benefit it was intended ; because, in one of 
the female forms which tripped along the street, mufiled 
in a veil of striped silk, like the women of Brussels at 
this day, his eye had discerned something which closely 
resembled the exquisite shape and spirited bearing of 
Catherine Seyton. During all the grave advice which 
the falconer was dinning into his ear, his eye continued 
intent upon so interesting an object of observation; and, 
at length, as the damsel, just about to dive under one of 
the arched passages w'hich afforded an outlet to the Can- 
ongate from the houses beneath, (a passage, graced by 
a projecting shield of arms, supported by two huge foxes 
of stone,) had lifted her veil, for the purpose perhaps 
of descrying who the horseman was who for some time 
had eyed her so closely, young Roland saw, under the 
shade of the silken plaid, enough of the bright azure 
eyes, fair locks, and blithe features, to induce him, like 
an inexperienced and rash madcap,'whose wilful ways 
had never been traversed by contradiction, nor much 
subjected to consideration, to throw the bridle of his 
horse into Adam Woodcock’s hand, and leave him to 


THE ABBOT. 


191 


play the waiting gentleman, while he clashed down the 
paved court after Catherine Seyton — all as aforesaid. 

Women’s wits are proverbially quick, but apparently 
those of Catherine suggested no better expedient than 
fairly to betake herself to speed of foot, in hopes of baf- 
fling the page’s vivacity, by getting safely lodged before 
he could discover where. But a youth of eighteen, in 
pursuit of a mistress, is not so easily outstripped. Cath- 
erine fled across a paved court, decorated with large 
formal vases of stone, in which yews, cypresses, and 
other evergreens, vegetated in sombre sullenness, and 
gave a correspondent degree of solemnity to the high 
and heavy building in front of which they were placed 
as ornaments, aspiring tow^ards a square portion of the 
blue hemisphere, corresponding exactly in extent to the 
quadrangle in which they were stationed, and all around 
which rose huge black walls, exhibiting windows in rows 
of five stories, with heavy architraves over each, bearing 
armorial and religious devices. 

Through this court Catherine Seyton flashed like a 
hunted doe, making the best use of those pretty legs 
which had attracted the commendation even of the re- 
flective and cautious Adam Woodcock. She hastened 
tow'ards a large door in the centre of the lower front of 
the court, pulled the bobbin till the latch flew up, and 
ensconsed herself in the ancient mansion. But, if she 
fled like a doe, Roland Grasme followed with the speed 
and ardour of a youthful stag-hound, loosed, for the first 
time on his prey. He kept her in view, in spite of her 
efforts ; for it is remarkable, what an advantage in such 
a race the gallant who desires to see, possesses over the 
maiden who wishes not to be seen — an advantage which 
I have known counterbalance a great start in point of 
distance. In short, he saw’ the waving of her screen, or 
veil, at one corner, heard the tap of her foot, liglit as 
that was, as it crossed the court, and caught a glimpse 
of her figure just as she entered the door of the mansion. 

Roland Graeme, inconsiderate and headlong as we 
have described him, having no knowledge of real life 


m 


THE ABBOT. 


but from the romances which he had read, and not an 
idea of checking himself in the midst of any eager im- 
pulse ; possessed besides of much courage and readi- 
ness, never hesitated for a moment to approach the door 
through which the object of his search had disappeared. 
He, too, pulled the bobbin, and the latch, though heavy 
and massive, answered to the summons, and arose. The 
page entered with the same precipitation which had 
marked his whole proceeding, and found himself in a 
large gloomy hall, or vestibule, dimly enlightened by 
lattice casements of painted glass, and rendered yet dim- 
mer through the exclusion of the sunbeams, owing to 
the height of the walls of those buildings by which the 
court-yard was inclosed. The walls of the hail w'ere 
surrounded with suits of ancient and rusted armour, in- 
terchanged with huge and massive stone scutcheons, 
bearing double tressures fleured and counter-fleured, wheat- 
sheaves, coronets, and so forth, things to which Roland 
Grasme gave not a moment’s attention. 

In fact, he only deigned to observe the figure of Cath- 
erine Seyton, who, deeming herself safe in the hall, had 
stopped to take breath after her course, and was repos- 
ing herself for a moment on a large oaken settle which 
stood at the upper end of the hall. The noise of Ro- 
land’s entrance at once disturbed her; she started up 
with a faint scream of surprise and escaped through one 
of the several folding-doors which opened into this apart- 
ment as a common centre. This door, which Roland 
Graeme instantly approached, opened on a large and 
well-lighted gallery, at the upper end of which he could 
hear several voices, and the noise of hasty steps ap- 
proaching towards the hall or vestibule. A little recalled 
to sober thought by an appearance of serious danger, he 
was deliberating whether he should stand fast or retire, 
when Catherine Seyton re-entered from a side door, 
running towards him with as much speed as a few min- 
utes since she had fled from him. 

“ O, what mischief brought you hither ?” she said ; 
“fly — fly, or you are a dead man, — or, stay — they 


THE ABBOT. 


193 


come — flight is impossible — say you came to ask for 
Lord Seyton.” 

She sprung from him, and disappeared through the door 
by which she had made lier second appearance ; and, ar 
the same instant, a pair of large folding-doors at the 
upper end of the gallery flew open with vehemence, and 
six or seven young gentlemen, richly dressed, pressed 
forward into the apartment, having, for the greater part, 
their swords drawn. 

“ Who is it,” said one, “ dare intrude on us in our 
own mansion ?” 

“ Cut him to pieces,” said another ; “ let him pay 
for this day’s insolence and violence — he is some follow- 
er of the Rothes.” 

“ No, by Saint Mary,” said another, “ he is a follow- 
er of the arch-fiend and ennobled clown Halbert Glen- 
dinning, who takes the style of Avenel — once a church- 
vassal, now a pillager of the church.” 

“ It is so,” said a fourth ; I know him by the holly- 
sprig, which is their cognizance. Secure the door, he 
must answer for this insolence.” ‘ 

Two of the gallants, hastily drawing their weapons, 
passed on to the door by which Roland had entered the 
hall, and stationed themselves there as if to prevent his 
escape. The others advanced on Grasme, who had just 
sense enough to perceive that any attempt at resistance 
would be alike fruitless and imprudent. At once, and 
by various voices, none of which sounded amicably, the 
page was required to say who he was, whence he catne, 
his name, his errand, and who sent him hither. The 
number of the questions dernanded of him at once, 
afforded a momentary apology for his remaining si- 
lent, and ere that brief truce had elapsed, a personage 
entered the hall, at whose appearance those who had 
gathered fiercely around Roland, fell back with respect. 

This was a tall man, whose dark hair was already 
grizzled, though his eye and haughty features retained 
all the animation of youth. The upper part of his per- 
17 VOL. I. 


194 


THE ABBOT. 


son was undressed to his Holland shirt, whose ample 
folds were stained with blood. But he wore a mantle 
of crimson, lined with rich fur cast around him, which 
supplied the deficiency of his dress. On his head he 
had a crimson velvet bonnet, looped up on one side with 
a small golden chain of many links, which, going thrice 
round the hat, was fastened by a medal agreeable to the 
fashion amongst the grandees of the time. 

“ Whom have you here, sons and kinsmen,” said he, 
“ around whom you crowd thus roughly ? — Know you 
not that the shelter of this roof should secure every one 
fair treatment, who shall come hither either in fair peace, 
or in open and manly hostility ?” 

“ But here, my lord,” answered one of the youths, 
“is a knave who comes on treacherous espial !” 

“ I deny the charge !” said Roland Graeme, boldly, 
“ I came to inquire after my Lord Seyton.” 

“ A likely tale,” answered his accusers, “ in the mouth 
of a follower of Glendinning.” 

“ Stay, young men,” said the Lord Seyton, for it was 
that nobleman himself, “ let me look at this youth — by 
heaven, it is the very same who came so boldly to my 
side not very many minutes since, when some of my 
own knaves bore themselves with more respect to their 
own worshipful safety than to mine ! Stand back from 
him, for he well deserves honour and a friendly welcome 
at your hands, irs'ead of this rough treatment.” 

They fell back on all sides, obedient to Lord Seyton’s 
commands, who, taking Roland Graeme by the hand, 
thanked him for his prompt and gallant assistance, add- 
ing, “that he nothing doubted, the same interest which 
he had taken in his cause in the affray, brought him 
hither to inquire after his hurt.” 

Roland bowed low in acquiescence. 

“ Or is there any thing in which I can serve you, to 
show rny sense of your ready gallantry?” 

But the page, thinking it best to abide by the apology 
for his visit which the Lord Seyton had so aptly himself 
suggested, replied, “that to be assured of his lordship’s 


TUE AEBOT. 


195 


safely, had been the only cause of his intrusion. He 
judged,” he added, “ he had seen him receive some 
hurt in the affray.” 

“ A trifle,” said Lord Seyton ; “ 1 had but stripped 
my doublet that the chirurgeon might put some dressing 
on the paltry scratch, when these rash boys interrupted 
us with their clamour.” 

Roland Graeme, making a low obeisance, was now 
about to depart, for, relieved from the danger of being 
treated as a spy, he began next to fear, that his companion 
Adam Woodcock, whom he had so unceremoniously 
quitted, would either bring him into some farther dilem- 
ma, by venturing into the hotel in quest of him, or ride 
off and leave him behind altogether. But Lord Seyton 
did not permit him to escape so easily. — “Tarry,” he 
said, “ young man, and let me know thy rank and name. 
The Seyton has of late been more wont to see friends 
and followers shrink from his side, than to receive aid 
from strangers — but a new w^orld may come round, in 
which he may have the chance of rewarding his well- 
wishers.” 

“ My name is Roland Graeme, my lord,” answered the 
youth, “a page, who, for the present, is in the service 
of Sir Halbert Glendinning.” 

“ I said so from the first,” said one of the young men ; 
“ my life I will wager, that this is a shaft out of the here- 
tic’s quiver — a stratagem from first to last, to injeer into 
your confidence some espial of his owm. They know 
how to teach both boys and women to play the intelli- 
gencers.” 

“ That is false, if it be spoken of me,” said Roland ; 
“ no man in Scotland should leach me such a foul part !” 

“ 1 believe thee, boy,” said Lord Seyton, “ for thy 
strokes were too fair to be dealt upon an understanding 
with those that were to receive them. Credit me, how- 
ever, I little expected to have help at need from one ot 
your master’s household ; and I would know what moved 
thee in my quarrel, to thine own endangering ?” 


196 


THE ABBOT. 


“ So please you, my lord,” said Roland, ‘‘I think my 
master himself would not have stood by, and seen an 
honourable man borne to earth by odds, if his single arm 
could help him. Such, at least, is the lesson we were 
taught in chivalry, at the Castle of Avenel.” 

“ The good seed hath fallen into good ground, young 
man,” said Seyton ; “ but, alas ! if thou practise such 
honourable war in these dishonourable days, when right is 
every w'here borne down by mastery, thy life, my poor 
boy, will be but a short one.” 

“ Let it be short, so it be honourable,” said Roland 
Graeme; “and permit me now, my lord, to commend 
me to your grace, and to take my leave. A comrade 
waits with my horse in the street.” 

“ Take this, however, young man,” said Lord Sey- 
ton, undoing from his bonnet the golden chain and medal, 
and wear it for my sake.”^*^ 

With no little pride Roland Graeme accepted the gift, 
which he hastily fastened around his bonnet, as he had 
seen gallants wear such an ornament, and renewing his 
obeisance to the Baron, left the hall, traversed the court, 
and appeared in the street, just as Adam Woodcock, 
vexed and anxious at his delay, had determined to leave 
the horses to their fate, and go in quest of his youthful 
comrade. “Whose barn hast thou broken next .^” he 
exclaimed, greatly relieved by his appearance, although 
his countenance indicated that he had passed through an 
agitating scene. 

“ Ask me no questions,” said Roland, leaping gaily 
on his horse ; “ but see how short time it takes to win 
a chain of gold,” pointing to that which he now wore. 

“ Now, God forbid that thou hast either stolen it or 
reft it by violence,” said the falconer; “ for, otherwise, 
I wot not how the devil thou couldst compass it. I 
have been often here, ay, for months at an end, and no 
one gave me either chain or medal.” 

“ Thou seest I have got one on shorter acquaintance 
with the city,” answered the page, “ but set thine hon- 


THE ABBOT. 


197 


est heart at rest ; that which is fairly won and freely 
given is neither reft nor stolen.” 

“ Marry, hang thee, with thy fanfarona* about thy 
neck !” said the falconer ; “ I think w^ater will not drown, 
nor hemp strangle thee. Thou hast been discarded as 
my lady’s page, to come in again as my lord’s squire ; 
and for following a noble young damsel into some great 
household, thou get’st a chain and medal, where another 
would have had the baton across his shoulders, if he 
missed having the dirk in his body. — But here we come 
in front of the old Abbey. Bear thy good luck with you 
when you cross these paved stones, and, by our Lady, 
you may brag Scotland.” 

As he spoke, they checked their horses, where the 
huge old vaulted entrance to the Abbey or Palace of 
Holyrood, crossed the termination of the street down 
which they had proceeded. The court-yard of the pal- 
ace opened within this gloomy porch, showing the front 
of an irregular pile of monastic buildings, one wing of 
which is still extant, forming a part of the modern pal- 
ace, erected in the days of Charles I. 

At the gate of the porch the falconer and page resign- 
ed their horses to the serving-man in attendance ; the 
falconer commanding him, with an air of authority, to 
carry them safely to the stables. “ We follow,” he said, 
“ the Knight of Avenel. — We must bear ourselves for 
what we are here,” said he, in a whisper to Roland, 
“ for every one here is looked on as they demean them- 
selves ; and he that is too modest must to the wall, as' 
the proverb says ; therefore, cock thy bonnet, man, and 
let us brook the causeway bravely.” 

Assuming, therefore, an air of consequence, corres- 
ponding to what he supposed to be his master’s impor- 
tance and quality, Adam Woodcock led the way into the 
court-yard of the Palace of Holyrood. 


* A name given to the gold chains worn by the military men of the period. 
It is of Spanish origin ; for the fashion of wearing these costly ornaments wcis 
much followed amongst the conquerors of the New World. 

17 * VOL. I. 


19S 


THE ABBOT. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


——The sky is clouded, Gaspard, 

And the vex’d ocean sleeps a troubled sleep, 

Beneath a lurid g leam of parting' sunshine. 

Such slumber hangs o’er discontented lands, 

While factions doubt, as yet if they have strength 
To front the open battle. 

Albion — A Poem. 


The youthftil page paused on the entrance of the 
court-yard, and implored his guide to give him a mo- 
ment’s breathing space. “ Let me but look around me, 
man,” said he ; “ you consider not 1 have never seen 
such a scene as this before. — And this is Holyrood — the 
resort of the gallant and gay, and the fair and the wise, 
and-the powerful !” 

“ Ay, marry, is it !” said Woodcock ; “ but I wish I 
could hood thee as they do the hawks, for thou starest 
as wildly as if you sought another fray or another fan- 
farona. I would I had thee safely housed, for thou look- 
est wild as a goss-hawk.” 

It was indeed no common sight to Roland, the vesti- 
bule of a palace, traversed by its various groups, — some 
radiant with gaiety — some pensive, and apparently weigh- 
ed down by affairs concerning the state, or concerning 
themselves. Here the hoary statesman, with his cautious 
yet commanding look, his furred cloak and sable paniou- 
fles ; there the soldier in buff and steel, his long sword 
jarring against the pavement, and his whiskered upper 
lip and frowning brow, looking a habitual defiance of dan- 
ger which perhaps was not always made good ; there again 
passed my lord’s serving-man, high of heart, and bloody of 
hand, humble to his master and his master’s equals, insolent 
to all others. To these might be added, the poor suitor, 
with his anxious look and depressed mien — the officer, full 
of his brief authority, elbowing his betters, and possibly his 


thk abbot. 


199 


benefactors out of the road — the proud priest who sought 
a better benefice — the proud baron, who sought a grant 
of cliurch lands — the robber chief, who came to solicit 
a pardon for the injuries he had inflicted on his neigh- 
bours — the plundered franklin, who came to seek ven- 
geance for that which he had himself received. Besides, 
there was the mustering and disposition of guards and 
soldiers — the despatching of messengers, and the receiv- 
ing them — the trampling and neighing of horses without 
the gate — the flashing of arms, and rustling of plumes, 
and jingling of spurs, within it. In short, it was that gay 
and splendid confusion, in which the eye of youth sees 
all that is brave and brilliant, and that of experience 
much that is doubtful, deceitful, false, and hollow — 
hopes that will never be gratified — promises which will 
never be fulfilled — pride in the disguise of humility — 
and insolence in that of frank and generous bounty. 

As, tired of the eager and enraptured attention which 
the page gave to a scene so new to him, Adam Wood- 
cock endeavoured to get him to move forward, before his 
exuberance of astonishment should attract the observa- 
tion of the sharp-witted denizens of the court, the fal- 
coner himself became an object of attention to a gay 
menial in a dark-green bonnet and feather, with a cloak 
of a corresponding colour, laid down, as the phrase then 
went, by six broad bars of silver lace, and welted with 
violet and silver. The words of recognition burst from 
both at once. “ What ! Adam Woodcock at court!” and 
“ What ! Michael Wing-the-wind — and how runs the 
hackit greyhound bitch now F” 

“ The waur for the wear, like ourselves, Adam — eight 
years this grass — no four legs will carry a dog forever ; 
but we keep her for the breed, and so she ’scapes Bor- 
der doom. — But why stand you gazing there ? I promise 
you my lord has wished for you, and asked for you.” 

“ My Lord of Murray asked for me, and he Regent 
of the kingdom too !” said Adam. “ I hunger and thirst 
to pay my duty to my good lord ; — but I fancy his good 
lordship remembers the day’s sport on Carnwarth-moor ; 


200 


THE ABBOT. 


and my Drummelzier falcon, that beat the hawks from 
the Isle of Man, and won his lordship a hundred crowns 
from the Southern baron whom they called Stanley.” 

“ Nay, not to flatter thee, Adam,” said his court-friend, 
“ he remembers nought of thee, or of thy falcon either. 
He hath flown many a higher flight since that, and struck 
his quarry too. But come, come hither away ; I trust 
we are to be good comrades on the old score.” 

“ What !” said Adam, “ you would have me crush a 
pot with you ? but I must first dispose of my eyas, 
where he will neither have girl to chase, nor lad to draw 
sword upon.” 

“ Is the youngster such a one ?” said Michael. 

‘‘ Ay, by my hood, he flies at all game,” replied 
Woodcock. 

“ Then had he better come with us,” said Michael 
Wing-the-wind ; “ for we cannot have a proper carouse 
just now, only I woulc. wet my lips, and so must you. I 
want to hear the news from Saint Mary’s before you see 
my lord, and I will let you know how the wind sits up 
yonder,” 

While he thus spoke he led the way to a side door 
which opened into the court ; and threading several dark 
passages with the air of one wdio knew the most secret 
recesses of the palace, conducted them to a small matted 
chamber, where he placed bread and cheese, and a foam- 
ing flagon of ale before the falconer and his young com- 
panion, who immediately did justice to the latter in a 
hearty draught, which nearly emptied the measure. Hav- 
ing drawn his breath, and dashed the froth from his whis- 
kers, he observed, that his anxiety for the boy had made 
him deadly dry. 

“ Mend your draught,” said his hospitable friend, again 
supplying the flagon from a pitcher which stood beside. 
“ I know the way to the buttery-bar. And now, mind 
what I say — this morning the Earl of Morton came to 
my lord in a mighty chafe.” 

“ What ! they keep the old friendship, then said 
Woodcock. 


THE ABBOT. 


201 


‘‘ Ay, ay, man, what else ?” said Michael; ‘‘ one hand 
must scratch the other. But in a mighty chafe was my 
Lord of Morton, who, to say truth, looketh on such oc- 
casions altogether uncanny, and, as it were, fiendish ; 
and he says to my lord — for I was in the chamber taking 
orders about a cast of hawks that are to be fetched from 
Darnoway — they match your long-winged falcons, friend 
Adam.” 

“ I will believe that when I see them fly as high a 
pitch,” replied Woodcock, this professional observation 
forming a sort of parenthesis. 

“ However,” said Michael, pursuing his tale, “ my 
Lord of Morton, in a mighty chafe, asked my Lord Re- 
gent whether he was well dealt with — for my brother,” 
said he, “ should have had a gift to be Comniendator of 
Kennaquhair, and to have all ihf. temporalities erected 
into a lordship of regality for' nis benefit ; and here,” 
said he, “ the false monks have hud the insolence to 
choose a new Abbot to put his claim in my brother’s way ; 
and, moreover the rascality of the neighbourhood hav^e 
burnt and plundered all that was left in the Abbey, so that 
my brother will not have a house to dwell in, when he 
hath ousted the lazy hounds of priests. And my lord 
seeing him chafed, said mildly to him. These are shrewd 
tidings, Douglas, but I trust they be not true ; for Hal- 
bert Glendinning went southward yesterday, with a band 
of spears, and assuredly had either of these chances hap- 
pened, that the monks had presumed to choose an Abbot, 
or that the Abbey had been burnt, as you say, he had 
taken order on the spot for the punishment of such inso- 
lence, and had despatched us a messenger. And the 
Earl of Morton replied — Now I pray you, Adam, to no- 
tice that I say this out of love to you and your lord, and 
also for old comradeship, and also because Sir Halbert 
hath done me good, and may again — and also because I 
love not the Earl of Morton, as indeed more fear than 
like him — so then it were a foul deed in you to betray 
me, — But, said the Earl to the Regent, Take heed, my 
lord, you trust not this Glendinning too far — he comes of 


202 


THE ABBOT. 


churl’s blood, which was never true to the nobles — by 
Saint Andrew these were his very words. — And besides, 
he said, he hath a brother a monk in Saint Mary’s, and 
walks all by his guidance, and is making friends on the 
border with Buccleuch and w'ith Fernieherst,^^aod will 
join hand with them, were there likelihood of a new 
world. And my lord answered, like a free noble lord as 
he is : Tush ! my Lord of Morton, I will be warrant for 
Glendinning’s faith ; and for his brother, he is a dreamer, 
that thinks of nought but book and breviary — and if such 
hap have chanced as you tell of, I look to receive from 
Glendinning the cowl of a hanged monk, and the head 
of a riotous churl, by way of sharp and sudden justice. 
And rny Lord of Morton left the place, and, as it seemed 
to me, somewhat malecontent. But since that time, my 
lord has asked me more than once whether there has 
arrived no messenger from the Knight of Avenel. And 
all this I have told you, that you may frame your dis- 
course to the best purpose, for it seems to me that my 
lord will not be well pleased, if aught has happened like 
what my Lord of Morton said, and if your lord hath not 
ta’en strict orders with it.” 

There was something in this communication which 
fairly blanked the bold visage of Adam Woodcock, in 
spite of the reinforcement which his natural hardihood 
had received from the berry-brown ale of Holy rood. 

“ What was it he said about a churl’s head, that grim 
Lord of Morton said the disconcerted falconer to his 
friend. 

“ Nay, it was my Lord Regent, who said that he ex- 
pected, if the Abbey was injured, your Knight would 
send him the head of the ringleader among the rioters.” 

“ Nay, but is thi^ done like a good Protestant,” said 
Adam Woodcock, “ or a true lord of the Congregation ? 
We used to be their white-boys and darlings, when we 
pulled down the convents in Fife and Perth-shire.” 

‘‘ Ay, but that,” said Michael, “ was when old mother 
Rome held her own, and her great folks were determin- 
ed she should have no shelter for her head in Scotland. 


THE ABBOT. 


203 


But, now that the priests are fled in all quarters, and their 
houses and lands are given to our grandees, they cannot 
see that we are working the work of reformation in de- 
stroying the palaces of zealous Protestants.” 

“ But I tell you Saint Mary’s is not destroyed !” said 
Woodcock, in increasing agitation ; “ some trash of 
painted windows there were broken — things that no no- 
bleman could have brooked in his house — some stone 
saints were brought on their marrow-bones, like old Wid- 
drington at Chevy-Chace ; but as for fire-raising, there 
was not so much as a lighted lunt amongst us, save the 
match which the dragon had to light the burning tow 
withal, which he was to spit against Saint George ; nay, 
I had caution of that.” 

“ How ! Adam Woodcock,” said his comrade, “ I trust 
thou hadst no hand in such a fair work ? Look you, 
Adam, 1 were loth to terrify you, and you just come from 
a journey ; but 1 promise you, Earl Morton hath brought 
you down a Maiden from Halifax, you never saw the like 
of her — and she’ll clasp you round the neck, and your 
head will remain in her arms.” 

“ Pshaw !” answered Adam, “ I am too old to have 
my head turned by any maiden of them all. 1 know my 
Lord of Morton will go as far for a buxom lass as any 
one ; but what the devil took him to Halifax all the way ? 
and if he has got a gamester there, what hath she to do 
with my head 

“ Much, much !” answered Michael. “ Herod’s 
daughter, who did such execution with her foot and an- 
cle, danced not men’s heads off more cleanly than this 
Maiden of Morton.^^ ’Tis an axe, man, — an axe which 
falls of itself like a sash window, and never gives the 
headsman the trouble to wield it.” 

“ By my faith, a shrew’d device,” said Woodcock ; 
“ heaven keep us free on’t !” 

The page, seeing no end to the conversation between 
these two old comrades, and anxious from what he had 
heard, concerning the fate of the Abbot, now interrupted 
their conference. 


204 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Methinks,” he said, “ Adam Woodcock, thou hadst 
better deliver thy master’s letter to the Regent ; ques- 
tionless he hath therein stated what has chanced at 
Kennaquhair, in the way most advantageous for all con- 
cerned.” 

“ The boy is right,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, 
“ my lord will be very impatient.” 

“ The child hath wit enough to keep himself warm,” 
said Adam Woodcock, producing from his hawking-bag 
his lord’s letter, addressed to the Earl of Murray, “ and 
for that matter, so have 1. So, Master Roland, you will 
e’en please to present this yourself to the Lord Regent ; 
his presence will be better graced by a young page than 
by an old falconer.” 

“ Well said, canny Yorkshire !” replied his friend ; 
“ and but now you were so earnest to see our good Lord ! 
— Why, wouldst thou put the lad into the noose that thou 
mayst slip tether thyself ? — or dost thou think the 
maiden will clasp his fair young neck more willingly than 
thy old sun-burnt weasand ?” 

“ Go to,” answered the falconer ; “ thy wit towers 
high an it could strike the quarry. 1 tell thee, the youth 
has nought to fear — he had nothing to do with the gam- 
bol — a rare gambol it was, Michael, as madcaps ever 
played ; and 1 had made as rare a ballad, if we had had 
the luck to get it sung to an end. But mum for that — 
tace, as 1 said before, is Latin for a candle. Carry the 
youth to the presence, and I will remain here, with bridle 
in hand, ready to strike the spurs up to the rowel-heads, 
in case the hawk flies my way. — 1 will soon put Soltra- 
edge, I trow, betwixt the Regent and me, if he means 
me less than fair play.” 

“ Come on then, my lad,” said Michael, “ since thou 
must needs take the spring before canny Yorkshire.” So 
saying, he led the way through winding passages, closely 
followed by Roland Grasme, until they arrived at a large 
winding stone stair, the steps of which were so long and 
broad, and at the same time so low, as to render the as- 
cent uncommonly easy. When they had ascended about 


THE AEBOT. 


205 


the height of one story, the guide stepped aside, and 
pushed open the door of a dark and gloomy anti-cham- 
ber ; so dark indeed, that his youthful companion stum- 
bled, and nearly fell down upon a low step, which was 
awkwardly placed on the very threshold. 

“ Take heed,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, in a very 
low tone of voice, and first glancing cautiously round to 
see if any one listened — “Take heed, my young friend, 
for those who fall on these boards seldom rise again — 
Seest thou that,” he added, in a still lower voice, point- 
ing to some dark crimson stains on the floor, on which a 
ray of light shot through a small aperture, and travers- 
ing the general gloorp of the apartment, fell with mottled 
radiance — “ Seest thou that, youth ? — walk warily, for 
men have fallen here before you.” 

“ What mean you said the page, his flesh creeping, 
though he scarce knew why ; “ Is it blood 

“ Ay, ay,” said the domestic, in the same whispering 
tone, and dragging the youth on by the arm — “ Blood it 
is, — but this is no time to question, or even to look at it. 
Blood it is, foully and fearfully shed, as foully and 
fearfully avenged. The blood,” he added, in a still 
more cautious tone, “ of Seignior David.” 

Roland Grasme’s heart throbbed when he found him- 
self so unexpectedly in the scene of Rizzio’s slaughter, 
a catastrophe which had chilled with horror all even in 
that rude age, which had been the theme of wonder and 
pity through every cottage and castle in Scotland, and 
had not escaped that of Avenel. But his guide hurried 
him forward, permitting no further question, and with the 
manner of one who has already tampered too much with 
a dangerous subject. A tap wdiich he made at a low 
door at one end of the vestibule, was answered by a 
huissier or usher, who, opening it cautiously, received 
Michael’s intimation that a page waited the Regent’s 
leisure, who brought letters from the Knight of Avenel. 

“ The Council is breaking up,” said the usher j “ but 
18 VOL. I. 


206 


THE ABBOT. 


give me the packet, his grace the Regent will presently 
see the messenger.” 

“ The packet,” replied the page, “ must be delivered 
into the Regent’s own hands ; such were the orders of 
my master.” 

The usher looked at him from head to foot, as if sur- 
prised at his boldness, and then replied, with some as- 
perity, “ Say you so, my young master ^ Thou crowest 
loudly to be but a chicken, and from a country barn- 
yard too.” 

“ Were it a time or place,” said Roland, “ thou 
shouldst see I can do more than crow ; but do your duty, 
and let the Regent know I wait his pleasure.” 

“ Thou art but a pert knave to tell me of my duty,” 
said the courtier in office ; “ but I will find a time to 
show you you are out of yours ; meanwhile, wait there 
till you are wanted.” So saying, he shut the door in 
Roland’s face. 

Michael Wing-the-wind, who had shrunk from his 
youthful companion during this altercation, according to 
the established maxim of courtiers of all ranks, and in 
all ages, now transgressed their prudential line of conduct 
so far as to come up to him once more. “ Thou art a 
hopeful young springald,” said he, “ and I see right well 
old Yorkshire had reason in his caution. Thou hast been 
five minutes in the court, and hast employed thy time so 
well, as to make a powerful and a mortal enemy of the 
usher of the council-chamber. Why, man, you might 
almost as well have offended the deputy butler!” 

“ I care not what he is,” said Roland Grasme ; “ I 
will teach whomever 1 speak with, to speak civilly to 
me in return. I did not come from Avenel to be brow- 
beaten in Holy rood.” 

“ Bravo, my lad 1” said Michael ; it is a fine spirit 
if you can hold it — but see, the door opens.” 

The usher appeared, and in a more civil tone of voice 
and manner, said, that his Grace the Regent would re- 
ceive the Knight of Avenel’s message ; and accordingly 
marshalled Roland Grajrne the way into the apartment. 


THE ABBOT. 


207 


from which the Council had been just dismissed, after 
finishing their consultations. There was in the room a 
long oaken table, surrounded by stools of the same wood, 
with a large elbow-chair, covered with crimson velvet, at 
the head. Writing materials and papers were lying there 
in apparent disorder ; and one or two of the privy coun- 
sellors who had lingered behind, assuming their cloaks, 
bonnets, and swords, and bidding farewell to the Regent, 
were departing slowly by a large door, on the opposite 
side to that through which the page entered. Apparent- 
ly the Earl of Murray had made some jest, for the smil- 
ing countenances of the statesmen expressed that sort ol 
cordial reception which is paid by courtiers to the con- 
descending pleasantries of a prince. 

The Regent himself was laughing heartily as he said, 

“ Farewell, my lords, and hold me remembered to the 
Cock of the North.” 

He then turned slowly round towards Roland Graeme, 
and the marks of gaiety, real or assumed, disappeared 
from his countenance, as completely as the passing bub- 
bles leave the dark mirror of a still profound lake into 
which a traveller has cast a stone : in the course of a 
minute his noble features had assumed their natural ex- 
pression of deep and even melancholy gravity. 

This distinguished statesman, for as such his worst en- 
emies acknowledged him, possessed all the external dig- 
nity, as well as almost all the noble qualities, which could 
grace the power that he enjoyed ; and had he succeeded 
to the throne as his legitimate inheritance, it is probable 
he would have been recorded as one of Scotland’s wisest 
and greatest kings. But that he held his authority by 
the deposition and imprisonment of his sister and bene- 
factress, was a crime which those only can excuse who 
think ambition an apology for ingratitude. He was dres- 
sed plainly in black velvet, after the Flemish fashion, and 
wore in his high-crowned hat a jewelled clasp, wdiich 
looped it up on one side, and formed the only ornament 
of his apparel. He had his poniard by his side, and his * 
sword lay on the council table. 


208 


THE ABBOT. 


Such was the personage before whom Roland Graeme 
now presented himself, with a feeling of breathless awe, 
very different from the usual boldness and vivacity of his 
temper. In fact, he was, from education and nature, for- 
ward but not impudent, and was much more easily con- 
trolled by the moral superiority, arising from the elevated 
talents and renown of those with whom he conversed, 
than by pretensions founded only on rank or external 
show. He might have braved with indifference the pres- 
ence of an earl, merely distinguished by his belt and 
coronet ; but he felt overawed in that of the eminent 
soldier and statesman, the wielder of a nation’s power, 
and the leader of her armies. The greatest and wisest 
are flattered by the deference of youth — so graceful and 
becoming in itself ; and Murray took, with much cour- 
tesy, the letter from the hands of the abashed and blush- 
ing page, and answered with complaisance to the imper- 
fect and half-muttered greeting which he endeavoured to 
deliver to him on the part of Sir Halbert of Avenel. He 
even paused a moment ere he broke the silk with which 
the letter was secured, Xo ask the page his name — so much 
he was struck with his very handsome features and form. 

“ Roland Graham,” he said, repeating the words after 
the hesitating page. “ What, of the Grahams of the 
Lennox 

“ No, my lord,” replied Roland ; “ my parents dwelt 
in the Debateable Land.” 

Murray made no farther inquiry, but proceeded to read 
his despatches ; during the perusal of which, his brow 
began to assume a stern expression of displeasure, as 
that of one who found something which at once surprised 
and disturbed him. He sat down on the nearest seat, 
frowned till his eyebrows almost met together, read the 
letter twice over, and was then silent for several minutes. 
At length, raising his head, his eye encountered that of 
the usher, who in vain endeavoured to exchange the look 
of eager and curious observation with which he had been 
perusing the Regent’s features, for that open and iinno- 
ticing expression of countenance, which, in looking at all, 


THE ABBOT. 


209 


seems as if it saw and marked nothing — a cast of look 
which may be practised with advantage by all those, 
of whatever degree, who are admitted to witness the 
familiar and unguarded hours of their superiors. Great 
men are as jealous of their thoughts as the wife of King 
Candaules was of her charms, and will as readily punish 
those who have, however involuntarily, beheld them in 
mental dishabille and exposure. 

“ Leave the apartment, Hyndman,” said the Regent 
sternly, “ and carry your observation elsewhere. You 
are too knowing, sir, for your post, which, by special or- 
der, is destined for men of blunter capacity. So ! now 
you look more like a fool than you did — (for Hyndrnan, 
as may easily be supposed, was not a little disconcerted 
by this rebuke) — keep that confused stare, and it may 
keep your office. Begone, sir !” 

The usher departed in dismay, not forgetting to regis- 
ter, amongst his other causes of dislike to Roland Grasme, 
that he had been the witness of this disgraceful chiding. 
When he had left the apartment, the Regent again ad- 
dressed the page. 

“ Your name you say is Armstrong 

“ No,” replied Roland, “ my name is Graeme, so please 
you — Roland Graeme, whose forbears were designated 
of Heathergill, in the Debateable Land.” 

“ Ay, I knew it was a name from the Debateable 
Land. Hast thou any acquaintances here in Edinburgli 

“ My Lord,” replied Roland, willing rather to evade 
this question than to answer it directly, for tlie prudence 
of being silent with respect to Lord Seyton’s adventure 
immediately struck him, “ I have been in Edinburgh 
scarce an hour, and that for the first time in my life.” 

“ What ! and thou Sir Halbert Glendinning’s page 
said the Regent. 

“ I was brought up as my Lady’s page,” said the youth, 
“ and left Avenel Castle for the first time in my life — at 
least since my childhood — only three days since.” 

18 * VOL. I. 


210 


THE A15BOT. 


“ My Lady’s page !” repeated the Earl of Murray, as 
if speaking to himself ; “ it was strange to send his La- 
dy’s page on a matter of such deep concernment — Mor- 
ton will say it is of a piece with the nomination of his 
brother to be Abbot ; and yet in some sort an inexperi- 
enced youth will best serve the turn. — What hast thou 
been taught, young man, in thy doughty apprenticeship 

“ To hunt, my lord, and to hawk,” said Roland Graeme. 

“ To hunt coneys, and to hawk at ouzels said the 
Regent, smiling ; “ for such are the sports of ladies and 
their followers.” 

Graeme’s cheek reddened deeply as he replied, not 
without some emphasis, “ To hunt red-deer of the first 
head, and to strike down herons of the highest soar, my 
lord, which in Lothian speech, may be termed, for aught 
I know, coneys and ouzels ; — also, 1 can wield a brand 
and couch a lance accoi ding to our Border meaning ; in 
inland speech these may be termed water-flags and bull- 
rushes.” 

“ Thy speech rings like metal,” said the Regent, “ and 
I pardon the sharpness of it for the truth. — Thou know- 
est, then, what belongs to the duty of a man-at-arms?” 

“ So far as exercise can teach it, without real service 
in the field,” answered Roland Grseme ; “ but our Knight 
permitted none of his household to make raids, and I 
never had the good fortune to see a stricken field.” 

“ The good fortune !” repeated the Regent, smiling 
somewhat sorrowfully, “ take my word, young man, war 
is the only game from which both parties rise losers.” 

“ Not always, my lord,” answered the page, wdth his 
characteristic audacity, “ if fame speaks truth.” 

“ How, sir said the Regent, colouring in his turn, 
and perhaps suspecting an indiscreet allusion to the height 
which he himself had attained by the hap of civil war. 

“ Because, my lord,” said Roland Graeme, without 
change of tone, “ he who fights well, must have fame in 
life, or honour in death ; and so war is a game from which 
no one can rise a loser.” 


THE ABBOT. 


211 


The Regent smiled and shook his head, when at that 
moment the door opened, and the Earl of Morton pre- 
sented himself. 

“ I come somewhat hastily,” he said, “ and I enter un- 
announced, because my news are of weight — It is as I 
said, Edward Glendinning is named Abbot, and” 

“ Hush, my lord !” said the Regent, “ I know it 
but” 

“ And perhaps you knew it before 1 did, my Lord oi 
Murray,” answered Morton, his dark red brow growing 
darker and redder as he spoke. 

“ Morton,” said Murray, “ suspect me not — touch not 
mine honour — 1 have to suffer enough from the calum- 
nies of foes, let me not have to contend with the unjust 
suspicions of my friends. — VVe are not alone,” said he, 
recollecting himself, or I could tell thee more.” 

He led Morton into one of the deep embrasures which 
the windows formed in the massive wall, and which af- 
forded a retiring place for their conversing apart. In this 
recess, Roland observed them speak together with much 
earnestness, Murray appearing to be grave and earnest, 
and Morton having a jealous and offended air, .which 
seemed gradually to give way to the assurances of the 
Regent. 

As their conversation grew more earnest, they became 
gradually louder in speech, having perhaps forgotten the 
presence of the page, the more readily as his»position in 
the apartment placed him out of sight, so that he found 
himself unwillingly privy to more of their discourse than 
he cared to hear. For, page though he was, a mean 
curiosity after the secrets of others had never been num- 
bered amongst Roland’s failings ; and moreover, with all 
his natural rashness, he could not but doubt the safety of 
becoming privy to the secret discourse of these powerful 
and dreaded men. Still he could neither stop his ears, 
nor with propriety leave the apartment ; and while he 
thought of some means of signifying his presence, he 
had already heard so much, that, to have produced him- 
self suddenly would have been as awkward, and perhaps 


213 


THE ABBOT. 


as dangerous, as in quiet to abide the end of their con- 
ference. What he overheard, however, was but an im- 
perfect part of their communication ; and although a 
more expert politician, acquainted with the circumstances 
of the times, would have had little difficulty in tracing 
the meaning, yet Roland Graeme could only form very 
general and vague conjectures as to the import of their 
discourse. 

“ All is prepared,” said Murray, “ and Lindesay is 
setting forward — She must hesitate no longer — thou 
seest I act by thy counsel, and harden myself against 
softer considerations.” 

“ True, my lord,” replied Morton, ‘‘ in what is ne- 
cessary to gain power, you do not hesitate, but go boldly 
to the mark. But are you as careful to defend and pre- 
serve what you have won F — Why this establishment of 
domestics around her — has not your sister men and 
maidens enough to tend her, but you must consent to this 
superfluous and dangerous retinue.^” 

‘‘ For shame, Morton ! — a Princess, and my sister, 
could 1 do less than allow her due tendance ?” 

“ Ay,” replied Morton, “ even thus fly all your shafts 
— smartly enough loosened from the bow, and not un- 
skilfully aimed — but a breath of foolish affection ever 
crosses in the mid volley, and sways the arrow from the 
mark.” 

“ Say not so, Morton !” replied Murray, I have 
both dared and done” 

“ Yes, enough to gain, but not enough to keep — reck- 
on not that she will think and act thus you have 

wounded her deeply, both in pride and in power — it sig- 
nifies nought, that you would tent now the wound with 
unavailing salves — as matters stand with you, you must 
forfeit the title of an affectionate brother, to hold that oi 
a bold and determined statesman.” 

“ Morton !” said Murray, with some impatience, “ 1 
brook not these taunts — what I have done I have done — 
what I must farther do, I must and will — but I am not 


THE ABBOT. 


213 


made of iron like thee, and I cannot but remember — 
Enough of this — my purpose holds.” 

“ And I warrant me,” said Morton, “ the choice of 
these domestic consolations will rest with” 

Here he whispered names which escaped Roland 
Graeme’s ear. Murray replied in a similar tone, but so 
much raised towards the conclusion of the sentence, 
that the page heard these words — “ And of him I hold 
myself secure, by Glendinning’s recommendation.” 

“ Ay, which may be as much trust-worthy as his late 
conduct at the Abbey of St. Mary’s — you have heard that 
his brother’s election has taken place. Your favourite 
Sir Halbert, my Lord of Murray, has as much fraternal 
affection as yourself.” 

“ By Heaven, Morton, that taunt demanded an un- 
friendly answer, but I pardon it, for your brother also is 
concerned ; but this election shall be annulled. I tell 
you, Earl of Morton, while I hold the sword of state in 
my royal nephew’s name, neither Lord nor Knight in 
Scotland shall dispute my authority ; and if I bear with 
insults from my friends, it is only while I know them to 
be such, and forgive their follies for their faithfulness.” 

Morton muttered what seemed to be some excuse, and 
the Regent answered him in a milder tone, and then sub- 
joined, ‘‘ Besides, 1 have another pledge than Glendin- 
ning’s recommendation for this youth’s fidelity — his near- 
est relative has placed herself in my hands as his security, 
to be dealt withal as his doing shall deserve.” 

“ That is something,” repliecf Morton ; “ but yet in 
fair love and good-will, I must still pray you to keep on 
your guard. The foes are stirring again, as horse-flies 
and hornets become busy so soon as the storm-blast is 
over. George of Seyton was crossing the causeway 
this morning with a score of men at his back, and had a 
ruffle with my friends of the House of Leslie — they met 
at the Tron, and were fighting hard, when the provost, 
with his guard of partizans, came in thirdsman and 
Slaved them asunder with their halberds, as men part dog 
and bear.” 


214 


THE ABUOT. 


“ He hath my order for such interference,” said the 
Regent — “ Has any one been hurt f” 

“ George of Seyton himself, by Black Ralph Leslie 
— the devil take the rapier that ran not through from side 
to side ! Ralph has a bloody coxcomb, by a blow from 
a messan-page whom nobody knew — Dick Seyton of 
Windygowl is run through the arm, and two gallants of 
the Leslies have suffered phlebotomy. This is all the 
gentle blood which has been spilled in the revel ; but a 
yeoman or two on both sides have had bones broken and 
ears cropped. The ostlere-wives, who are like to be the 
only losers by their miscarriage, have dragged the knaves 
off the street, and are crying a drunken coronach over 
them.” 

“ You take it lightly, Douglas,” said the Regent ; 
“ these broils and feuds would shame the capital of the 
Great Turk, let alone that of a Christian and reformed 
state. But, if I live, this gear shall be amended ; and 
men shall say, when they read my story, that if it were 
my cruel hap to rise to power by the dethronement of a 
sister, I employed it, when gained, for the benefit of the 
commonweal.” 

“ And of your friends,” replied Morton ; “ where- 
fore 1 trust for your instant order annulling the election 
of this lurdane Abbot, Edward Glendinning.” 

“ You shall be presently satisfied,” said the Regent, and, 
stepping forward, he began to call, “ So ho, Hyndman !” 
when suddenly his eye l^hted on Roland Graeme— r-“ By 
my faith, Douglas,” said he, turning to his friend, “ here 
have been three at counsel!” 

“ Ay, but only two can keep counsel,” said Morton ; 
“ the galliard must be disposed of.” 

“ For shame, Morton ! — an orphan boy ! — Hearken 
thee, my child — thou hast told me some of thy accom- 
plishments — can’st thou speak truth 

“ Ay, my lord, when it serves my turn,” replied 
Graeme. 

“ It shall serve thy turn now,” said the Regent ; 

“ and falsehood shall be thy destruction. How much 


THE ABBOT. 


215 


hast thou heard or understood of what we two have 
spoken together?” 

“ But little, my lord,” replied Roland Graeme boldly, 
“ which met my apprehension, saving that it seemed to 
me as if in something you doubted the faith of the 
Knight of Avenel, under whose roof I was nurtured.” 

“ And what hast thou to say on that point, young 
man ?” continued the Regent, bending his eyes upon 
him with a keen and strong expression of observation. 

“ That,” said the page, “ depends on the quality of 
those who speak against his honour whose bread I have 
long eaten. If they be my inferiors, 1 say they lie, and 
will maintain what I say with my baton ; if my equals, 
still I say they lie, and will do battle in the quarrel, if 
they list, with my sword ; if my superiors” — he paused. 

“ Proceed boldly,” said the Regent — “ What if thy 
superior said aught that nearly touched your master’s 
honour ?” 

“ I would say,” replied Graeme, ‘‘ that he did ill to 
slander the absent, and that my master was a man who 
could render an account of his actions to any one who 
should manfully demand it of him to his face.” 

“ And it were manfully said,” replied the Regent — 
“ what think’stthou, my Lord of Morton?” 

“ I think,” replied Morton, “ that if the young gal- 
liard resemble a certain ancient friend of ours, as much 
in the craft of his disposition, as be does in eye and in 
brow, there may be a wide difference betwixt what he 
means and what he speaks.” 

“ And whom meanest thou that he resembles so close- 
ly ?” said Murray. 

“ Even the true and trusty Julian Avenel,” replied 
Morton. 

“ But this youth belongs to the Debateable Land,” 
said Murray. 

“ It may be so ; but Julian was an outlying striker of 
venison, and made many a far cast when he had a fair 
doe in chase.” 


216 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Pshaw !” said the Regent, “ this is but idle talk — 
Here, thcfh Hyndman — thou Curiosity,” calling to the 
usher, who now entered, “ conduct this youth to his com- 
panion. — You will both,” he said to Grsme, “ keep your- 
selves in readiness to travel on short notice.” — And then 
motioning to him courteously to withdraw, he broke up 
the interview. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


It is and is not — Uis the thing I sought for, 

Have kneel'd for, pray’d for, risk’d my fame and life for, 
And yet it is not — no more than the shadow 
Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polish’d mirror, 

Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance 
Which it presents in form and lineament. 

Old Play. 


The usher, with gravity which ill concealed a jealous 
scowl, conducted Roland Graeme to a lower apartment, 
where he found his comrade the falconer. The man of 
office then briefly actjuainted them that this would be 
their residence till his' grace’s further orders ; that they 
were to go to the pantry, to the buttery, to the cellar, and 
to the kitchen, at the usu«rl hours, to receive the allow- 
ances becoming their station, — instructions which Adam 
Woodcock’s old familiarity with the court made him 
perfectly understand — “ For your beds,” he said, “ you 
must go to the hostelrie of Saint Michael’s, in respect the 
palace is now full of the domestics of the greater nobles.” 

No sooner was the usher’s back turned, than Adam 
exclaimed, with all the .glee of eager curiosity, “ And 
now, Master Roland, the* news — the news — come, un- 
button thy pouch, and give us thy tidings — What says the 
Regent.? asks he for Adam Woodcock .? — and is all sol- 
dered up, or must the Abbot of Unreason strap for it ?” 


THE ABBOT. 


217 


“ All is well in that quarter,” said the page ; “ and 
for the rest — But, hey-day, what, have you taken the 
chain and medal off from my bonnet 

“ And meet time it was, when yon usher, vinegar-faced 
rogue that he is, began to inquire what popish trangam 
you were wearing — By the mass, the metal would have 
been confiscated for conscience-sake, like your other 
rattle-trap yonder at Avenel, which Mrs. Lilias bears 
about on her shoes in the guise of a pair of shoe-buckles 
— This comes of carrying popish nicknackels about you.” 

“ The jade !” exclaimed Roland Graeme, “ has she 
melted down my rosary into buckles for her clumsy hoofs, 
which will set off such a garnish nearly as well as a 
cow’s might?— But, hang her, let her keep them — many a 
dog’s trick have 1 played old Lilias, for want of having 
something better to do, and the buckles will serve for a 
remembrance. Do you remember the verjuice I put into 
the comfits, when old Wingate and she were to breakfast 
together on Easter morning ?” 

“In troth do I, Master Roland — the major-domo’s 
mouth was as crooked as a hawk’s beak for the whole 
morning afterwards, and any other page in your room 
would have tasted the discipline of the porter’s lodge for 
it — But my lady’s favour stood between your skin and 
many a jerking — Lord send you may be tlie better for 
her protection in such matters!” 

“ I am at least grateful for it, Adam ; and I am glad 
you put me in mind of it.” 

“ Well, but the news, my young master,” said Wood- 
cock, “ spell me the tidings — what are we to fly at next ? 
— what did the Regent say to you ?” 

“ Nothing that I am to repeat again,” said Roland 
Grteme, shaking his head. 

“ Why, hey-day,” said Adam, “ how prudent we are 
become all of a sudden I You have advanced rarely in 
brief space. Master Roland. You have wellnigh had 
your head broken, and you have gained your gold chain, 
and you have made an enemy, PvJaster Usher to wit, with 
19 VOL. I. 


218 


THE ABBOT. 


his two legs like hawk’s perches, and you have had au- 
dience of the first man in the realm, and bear as much 
mystery in your brow, as if you liad flown in the court- 
sky ever since you were iiatciied. — 1 believe, in my soul, 
you would run with a piece of the egg-shell on your 
head like the curlews, which (I would we were alter 
them again) we used to call vvhaups in tlie lialidome and 
its neiglibourhood. — But sit thee down, boy; Adam 
Woodcock was never the lad to seek to enter into for- 
bidden secrets — sit thee down, and 1 will go fetch the 
vivers — I'know the butler and the pantler of old.” 

The good-natured falconer set forth upon his errand, 
busying himself about procuring their refreshment; and, 
dui'ing his absence, Roland Grasme abandoned himself 
to the strange, complicated, and yet heart-stirring reflec- 
tions, to wdiich the events of the morning had given rise. 
Yesterday he was of neither mark nor likelihood, a va- 
grant boy, the attendant on a relative, of whose sane 
judgment he himself had not the highest opinion ; but 
now he had become, he knew not why, or wherefore, or 
to what extent, the custodier, as the Scottish phrase went, 
of some important state secret, in the safe keeping of 
which the Regent himself was concerned. It did not 
diminish from, but rather added to the interest of a situ- 
ation so unexpected, that Roland himself did not per- 
fectly understand wherein he stood committed by the 
state secrets, in w’hich he had unwittingly become par- 
ticipator. On the contrary, he felt like one who looks on 
a romantic landscape, of which he sees the features for 
the first time, and then obscured w’ith mist and driving 
tempest. The imperfect glimpse which the eye catches 
of rocks, trees, and other objects around him, adds dou- 
ble dignity to these shrouded mountains and darkened 
abysses, of which the height, depth, and extent, are left 
to imagination. 

But mortals, especially at the well-appetized age which 
precedes twenty years, are seldom so much engaged 
either by real or conjectural subjects of speculation, but 
that their earthly wants claim their hour of attention 


THE ABBOT. 


219 


And with many a smile did oiir hero, so the reader may 
term him if he will, hail the re-appearance of liis friend 
Adam Woodcock, bearing on one wooden platter a tre- 
mendous portion of boiled beef, and on another a plen- 
tiful allowance of greens, or rather what the Scotch call 
lang-kale. A groom followed with bread, salt, and the 
other means of setting forth a meal ; and when they 
had both placed on the oaken table what they bore in 
their hands, the falconer observed, “ that since he knew 
ihe court, it had got harder and harder every day ^to the 
poor gentlemen and yeomen retainers, but that now it 
was an absolute flaying of a flea for the hide and tallow. 
Such thronging to the wicket, and such churlish answers, 
and such bare beef-bones, such a shouldering at the but- 
tery-hatch and cellarage, and nought to be gained beyond 
small insufficient single ale, or at best with a single straike 
of malt to counterbalance a double allowance of water — 
By the mass though, my young friend,” said he, while 
he saw the food disappearing fast under Roland’s active 
exertions, “ it is not so well to lament for former times 
as to take the advantage of the present, else we are like 
to lose on both sides.” 

So saying, Adam Woodcock drew his chair towards 
the table, unsheathed his knife, (for every one carried that 
minister of festive distribution for himself,) and imitated 
his young companion’s example, who for the moment had 
lost his anxiety for the future in the eager satisfaction of 
an appetite sharpened by youth and abstinence. 

In truth, they made, though the materials were suffi- 
ciently simple, a very respectable meal, at the expense 
of the royal allowance ; and Adam Woodcock, notwith- 
standing the deliberate censure which he had passed on 
the household beer of the palace, had taken the fourth 
deep draught of the black-jack ere he remembered him 
that he had spoken in its dispraise. Then, flinging himself 
jollily and luxuriously back in an old danske elbow-chair, 
and looking with careless glee towards the pap, ex- 
tending at the same time his right leg, and stretching the 
other easily over it, he reminded his companion that he 


220 


THE ABBOT. 


had not yet heard the ballad which he had made for the 
Abbot of Unreason’s revel. And accordingly he struck 
merrily up with 

“ The Pope, that Pagan full of pride, 

Has blinded us full lang” 

Roland Grseme, who felt no great delight, as may be 
supposed, in the falconer’s satire, considering its subject, 
began to snatch up his mantle, and fling it around his 
shoulders, an action which instantly interrupted the ditty 
of Adam Woodcock. 

“ Where the vengeance are you going now,” he said, 
“ thou restless boy ? — Thou hast quicksilver in the veins 
of thee to a certainty, and canst no more abide any 
douce and sensible communing, than a hoodless hawk 
would keep perched on my wrist !” 

“ Why, Adam,” replied the page, “ if you must 
needs know, I am about to take a walk and look at this 
fair city. One may as well be still mewed up in the old 
castle of the lake, if one is to sit the livelong night be- 
tween four walls, and hearken to old ballads.” 

“ It is a new ballad — the Lord help thee !” replied 
Adam, “ and that one of the best that ever was matcl> 
ed with a rousing chorus.” 

“ Be it so,” said the page, ‘‘ I will hear it another day, 
wdien the rain is dashing against the windows, and there 
is neither steed stamping, nor spur jingling, nor feather 
waving in the neighbourhood, to mar my marking it well. 
But, even now, 1 want to be in the world, and to look 
about me.” 

“ But the never a stride shall you go without me,” 
said the falconer, “ until the Regent shall take you whole 
and sound oft’ my hand ; and so, if you will, we may go 
to the hostelry of Saint Michael’s, and there you will see 
company enough, but through the casement, mark you 
me ; for as to rambling through the street to seek Sey- 
tons and Leslies, and having a dozen holes drilled in 
your new jacket with rapier and poniard,! will yieTd no 
way to it.” 


THE ABBOT. 


221 


“ To the hostelry of St. Michael’s, then, with all my 
heart,” said the page ; and they left the palace accord- 
ingly, rendered to tlie sentinels at the gate, who had now 
taken their posts for the evening, a strict account of their 
names and business, were dismissed through a small 
wicket of the close-barred portal, and soon reached the 
inn or hostelry of Saint Michael, which stood in a large 
court-yard, off the main street, close under the descent 
of the Calton-hill. The place, wide, waste, and un- 
comfortable, resembled rather an Eastern caravansary, 
where men found shelter indeed, but were obliged to 
supply themselves with every thing else, than one of our 
modern inns ; 

Where not one comfort shall to those be lost, 

Who never, ask, or never feel, the cost. 

But Still, to the inexperienced eye of Roland Graeme, 
the bustle and confusion of this place of public resort, fur- 
nished excitement and amusement. In the large room, into 
which they had rather found their own way than been ush- 
ered by mine host, travellers and natives of the city entered 
and departed, met and greeted, gamed or drank together, 
forming the strongest contrast to the stern and monpto- 
nous order and silence with which matters were conduct- 
ed in the well-ordered household of the Knight of Ave- 
nel. Altercation of every kind from brawling to jesting, 
was going on among the groups around them, and yet 
the noise and mingled voices seemed to disturb no one, 
and indeed to be noticed by no others than by those who 
composed the group to which the speaker belonged. 

The falconer passed through the apartment to a pro- 
jecting latticed window, wliich formed a sort of recess 
from the room itself ; and haying here ensconced himself 
and his companion, he called for some refreshments ; 
and a tapster, after he had . shouted for the twentieth 
time, accommodated him with the remains of a cold 
capon and a neat’s tongue, together with a pewter stoup 
19 * VQL. I. 


222 


THE ABBOT. 


of weak French vin-de-pais. “ Fetch a stoup of bran- 
dy-wine, thou knave — We will be jolly to-night, Master 
Roland,’’ said he, when be saw himself thus accommo- 
dated, “ and let care come to-morrow.” 

But Roland had eaten too lately to enjoy the good 
cheer ; and feeling his curiosity much sharper than his 
appetite, he made it his choice to look out of the lattice, 
which overhung a large yard, surrounded by the stables 
of the hostelry, and fed his eyes on the busy sight be- 
neath, while Adam Woodcock, after he had compared 
his companion to the “ Laird of Macfarlane’s geese, who 
liked their play better than their meat,” disposed of his 
time with the aid of cup and trencher, occasionally hum- 
ming the burden of his birth-strangled ballad, and beating 
time to it with his fingers on the little round table. In 
this exercise he was frequently interrupted by the excla- 
mations of his companion, as he saw something new in 
the yard beneath, to attract and interest him. 

It was a busy scene, for the number of gentlemen and 
nobles who were now crowded into the city, had filled 
all spare stables and places of public reception with their 
horses and military attendants. There were some score 
of yeomen, dressing their own or their masters’ horses in 
the yard, whistling, singing, laughing, and upbraiding 
each other in a style of wit which the good order of 
Avenel Castle rendered strange to Roland Graeme’s ears. 
Others were busy repairing their own arms, or cleaning 
those of their masters. . One fellow, having just bought 
a bundle of twenty spears, was sitting in a corner, em- 
ployed in painting the white staves of the weapons with 
yellow and vermillion. Other lacqueys led large stag- 
hounds, or wolf-dogs, of noble race, carefully muzzled 
to prevent accidents to passengers. All came and went, 
mixed together and separated, under the delighted eye 
of the page, whose imagination had not even conceived 
a scene so*gaily diversified with the objects he had most 
pleasure in beholding ; so that he was perpetually break- 
ing the quiet reverie of honest Woodcock, and the men- 
tal progress which he was making in his ditty, by ex- 


TUE ABBOT. 


223 


claiming, “ Look here, Adam — look at the bonny bay 
horse — Saint Anthony, what a gallant forehand he hath 
got ! — and see the goodly grey, which yonder fellow in 
the frieze-jacket is dressing as awkwardly, as if he had 
never touched aught but a cow — I would 1 were nigh him 
to teach him his trade ! — And lo you, Adam, the gay 
Milan armour that the yeoman is scouring, all steel and 
silver, like our Knight’s prime suit, of which old Wingate 
makes such account — And see to yonder pretty wench, 
Adam, who comes tripping through them all with her 
milk-pail — I warrant me she has had a long walk from 
the loaning; she has a stammek waistcoat, like your 
favourite Cicely Sunderland, Master Adam!” 

“ By my hood, lad,” answered the falconer, “ it is 
well for thee thou wert brought up where grace grew. 
Even in the Castle of Avenel thou wert a wild-blood 
enough, but hadst thou been nurtured here, within a flight- 
shot of the Court, thou hadst been the veriest crack- 
hemp of a page that ever wore feather in thy bonnet or 
steel by thy side : truly, 1 wish it may end well with thee.” 

“ Nay, but leave thy senseless humming and drum- 
ming, old Adam, and come to the window ere thou hast 
drenched thy senses in the pint-pot there. See here 
comes' a merry minstrel with his crowd, and a wench 
with him, that dances with bells at her ancles ; and see, 
the yeomen and pages leave their horses and the armour 
they were cleaning, and gather round, as is very natural, 
to hear the music. Come, old Adam, we will thither 
too.” 

“ You shall call me cutt if I do go down,” said Ad- 
am ; “ you are near as good minstrelsy as the stroller can 
make, if you had but the grace lo listen to it.” 

“ But the wench in the starnmel Waistcoat is stopping 
too, Adam — by heaven they are going to dance ! Frieze- 
jacket wants to dance with stammel-waistcoat, but she is 
coy and recusant.” 

Then suddenly changing his tone of levity into one of 
deep interest and surprise, he exclaimed, “ Queen of 


224 


THE ABBOT. 


Heaven ! what is it that I see !•” and then remained 
silent. 

The sage Adam Woodcock, who was in a sort of lan- 
guid degree amused with the page’s exclamations, even 
while he professed to despise them, became at length 
rather desirous to set his tongue once more a-going, that 
he might enjoy the superiority afforded by his own inti- 
mate familiarity with all the circumstances which excited 
in his young companion’s mind so much wonderment. 

“ Well, then,” he said at last, “ what is it you do see. 
Master Roland, that you have become mute all of a 
sudden ?” 

Roland returned no answer. 

“ I say. Master Roland Graeme,” said the falconer, 
“ it is manners in my country for a man to speak when 
he is spoken to.” 

Roland Graeme remained silent. 

“ The murrain is in the boy,” said Adam Woodcock-, 
“ he has stared out his eyes and talked his tongue to 
pieces, 1 think!” 

The falconer hastily drank off his can of wine, and 
came to Roland, who stood like a statue, with his eyes 
eagerly bent on the court-yard, though Adam Woodcock 
was unable to detect amongst the joyous scene which it 
exhibited aught that could deserve such devoted atten- 
tion. 

“ The lad is mazed !” said the falconer to himself. 

But Roland Grseme had good reasons for his surprise, 
though they were not such as he could communicate to 
his companion. 

The touch of the old minstrel’s instrument, for he had 
already begun to play, had drawn in several auditors 
from the street, when one entered the gate of the' yard, 
whose appearance exclusively arrested the attention of 
Roland Graeme. He was of his own age, or a good deal 
younger, and from his dress and bearing might be of the 
same rank and calling, having all the air of coxcombrv 
and pretension, which accorded with a handsome thougli 
slight and low figure, and an elegant dress, in part hid by 


THE ABBOT. 


225 


a large purple cloak. As he entered, he cast a glance 
up towards the windows, and to his extreme astonish- 
ment, under the purple velvet bonnet and while feather, 
Roland recognized the features so deeply impressed on 
his memory, the bright and clustered tresses, the laugh- 
ing full blue eyes, the well-formed eyebrows, the nose, 
with the slightest possible inclination to be aquiline, the 
ruby lip, of which an arch and half-suppressed smile 
seemed the habitual expression — in short, the fornv and 
face of Catherine Seyton ; in man’s attire, however, and 
mimicking, as it seemed, not unsuccessfully, the bearing 
of a youthful but forward page. 

Saint George and Saint Andrew !” exclaimed the 
' mazed Roland Graeme to himself, “ was there ever such 
an audacious quean ! — she seems a little ashamed of her 
mummery too, for she holds the lap of her cloak to her 
face, and her colour is heightened — but, Santa Maria, 
how she threads the throng, with as firm and bold a step 
as if she had never tied petticoat round her waist — Holy 
saints ! she holds up her riding-rod as if she would lay 
it about some of their ears, that stand most in her way 
— by the hand of my father! she bears herself like the 
very model of pagehood. — Hey ! what ! sure she will 
not strike frieze-jacket in earnest?” But he was not long 
left in doubt ; for the lout whom he had before repeated- 
ly noticed, standing in the way of the bustling page, and 
maintaining his place with clownish obstinacy or stupid- 
ity, the advanced riding-rod was, without a moment’s 
hesitation, sharply applied to his shoulders, in a manner 
which made him spring aside, rubbing the part of the 
body which had received so unceremonious a hint that 
it was in the way of his betters. The party injured 
growled forth an oath or two of indignation, and Roland 
Grajme began to think of flying down stairs to the assist- 
ance of the translated Catherine ; but the laugh of the 
yard was against frieze-jacket, which indeed had, in 
those days, small chance of fair play in a quarrel with 
velvet and embroidery ; so that the fellow, who was a 
menial in the inn, slunk back to finish his task of dressing 


226 


THE ABBOT. 


the bonny grey, laughed at by all, but most by the wench 
in the stammel-vvaistcoat, his fellow-servant, who, to 
crown his disgrace, had the cruelty to cast an applauding 
smile upon the author of the injury, while, with a free- 
dom more like the milk-maid of the town than she of 
the plains, she accosted him with — “ Is tliere any one 
you want here, my pretty gentleman, that you seem in 
such haste 

“ I seek a slip of a lad,” said the seeming gallant, 
“ with a sprig of holly in his cap, black hair and black 
eyes, green jacket and the air of a country coxcomb — 1 
have sought him through every close and alley in the 
Canongate, the fiend gore him !” 

“ Why, God-a-mercy, Nun !” muttered Roland 
Grasme, much bewildered. 

“ 1 will inquire him presently out for your fair young 
worship,” said the wench of the inn. 

“ Do,” said the gallant squire, “ and if you bring me 
to him, you shall have a groat to-night, and a kiss on Sun- 
day when you have on a cleaner kirtle.” 

“ Why, God-a-mercy, Nun !” again muttered Roland, 
“ this is a note above E La.” 

In a moment after the servant entered the room, and 
ushered in the object of his surprise. 

While the disguised vestal looked with unabashed brow, 
and bold and rapid glance of her eye, through the vari- 
ous parties in the large old room, Roland Grjieme, who 
felt an internal awkward sense of bashful confusion, which 
he deemed altogether unworthy of the bold and dashing 
character to which he aspired, determined not to be brow- 
beaten and put down by this singular female, but to meet 
her with a glance of recognition so sly, so penetrating, 
so expressively humourous, as should show her at once 
he was in possession of her secret and master of her fate, 
and should compel her to humble herself towards him, 
at least into the look and manner of respectful and de- 
precating observance. 

This was extremely well planned ; but just as Roland 
had called up the knowing glance, the suppressed smile, 


THE ABBOT. 


227 




the shrewd intelligent look, which was to ensure his tri- 
umph, he encountered the bold, firm, and steady gaze of 
his brother or sister page, who, casting on him a falcoii 
glance, and recognizing him at once as the object of his 
search, walked up with the most unconcerned look, the 
most free and undaunted composure, and hailed him with 
“ Toil, Sir Holly-top, 1 would speak with you.” 

The steady coolness and assurance with which these 
words were uttered, although the voice was the very voice 
he had heard at the old convent, and although the fea- 
tures more nearly resembled those of Catherine when 
seen close than when viewed from a distance, produced, 
nevertheless, such a confusion in Roland’s mind, that he 
became uncertain whether he w^as not still under a mis- 
take from the beginning ; the knowing shrewdness which 
should have animated his visage faded into a sheepish 
bashfulness, and the half-suppressed but most intelligi- 
ble smile, became the senseless giggle of one who laughs 
to cover his own disorder of ideas. 

“ Do they understand a Scotch tongue in thy country. 
Holly-top said this marvellous specimen of metamor- 
phosis. “ I said I would speak with thee.” 

“ What is your business with my comrade, my young 
chick of the game .^” said Adam Woodcock, willing to 
step in to his companion’s assistance, though totally at a 
loss to account for the sudden disappearance of all Ro- 
land’s usual smartness and presence of mind. 

Nothing to you, my old cock of the perch,” replied 
the gallant ; “ go ntind your hawk’s castings. I guess 
by your bag and your gauntlet that you are squire of the 
body to a sort of kites.” 

He laughed as he spoke, and the laugh reminded Ro- 
land so irresistibly of the hearty fit of risibility , in which 
Catherine had indulged at his expense when they first 
met in the old nunnery, that he could scarce help exclaim- 
ing, “ Catherine Seyton, by heavens !” — He checked tbs 
exclamation, however, and only said, “ I think, sir, we 
two are not totally strangers to each other.” 


228 


THE ABBOT. 


“ We must have met in our dreams then,” said the 
youth ; and my days are too busy to remember what 
I think on at nights.” 

Or apparently to remember upon one day those 
whom you may have seen on the preceding eve,” said 
Roland Grasme. 

The youth in his turn cast on him a look of some sur- 
prise, as he replied, “ I know no more of what you mean 
than does the horse I ride on — if there be offence in 
your words, you shall find me as ready to take it as any 
lad in Lothian.” 

“ You know well,” said Roland, “ though, it pleases 
you to use the language of a stranger, that with you I 
can have no purpose to quarrel.” 

“ Let me do mine errand then, and be rid of you,” 
said the page. “ Step hither this way, out of that old 
leathern fist’s hearing.” 

They walked into the recess of the window, which Ro- 
land had left upon the youth’s entrance into the apart- 
ment. The messenger then turned his back on the com- 
pany, after casting a hasty and .sharp glance around to 
see if they were observed. Roland did the same, and 
the page in the purple mantle thus addressed him, taking 
at the same time from under his cloak a short but beauti- 
fully-wrought sword, with the hilt and ornaments upon 
the sheath of silver, massively chased and over-gilded — 
“ 1 bring you this weapon from a friend, who gives it you 
under the solemn condition, that you will not unsheath it 
until you are commanded by your rightful sovereign. 
For your warmth of temper is known, and the presump- 
tion with which you intrude yourself into the quarrels of 
others ; and, therefore, this is laid upon you as a penance 
by those who wish you well, and whose hand will influ- 
ence your destiny for good or for evil. This is what I 
was charged to tell ygu. So if you will give a fair word 
for a fair sword, and pledge your promise, with hand and 
glove, good and well ; and if not, I will carry back Cali- 
burn to those who sent it.” 


THE ABBOT. 


229 


“ And may I not ask who these are ?” said Roland 
Graeme, admiring at the same lime the beauty of the 
weapon thus offered him. 

“ My commission in no way leads me to answer such a 
question,” said he of the purple mantle. 

“ But if I am offended,” said Roland, ‘‘ may I not 
draw to defend myself.^” 

“ Not this weapon,” answered the sword-bearer ; “ but 
you have your own at command, and, besides, for what 
do you wear your poniard ?” 

“ For no good,” said Adam Woodcock, who had now 
approached close to them 5 “ and that I can witness as 
well as any one.” 

“ Stand back, fellow,” said the messenger ; “ thou 
hast an intrusive curious face, that will come by a buffet 
if it is found where it has no concern.” 

“ A buffet, my young Master Malapert?” said Adam, 
drawii^g back, however ; “ best keep down fist, or, by Our 
Lady, buffet will beget buffet !” 

“ Be patient, Adam Woodcock,” said Roland Graeme ; 
— “ and let me pray you, fair sir, since by such addition 
you choose for the present to be addressed, may I not 
barely unsheath this weapon, in pure simplicity of de- 
sire to know whether so fair a hilt and scabbard are match- 
ed with a befitting blade 

“ By no manner of means,” said the messenger ; “ at 
a word, you must take it under the promise that you never 
draw it until you receive the commands of your lawful 
sovereign, or you must leave it alone.” 

“ Under that condition, and coming from your friendly 
hand, I accept of the sword,” said Roland, taking it from 
his hand ; “ but credit me, that if we are to work to- 
gether in any weighty emprize, as I am induced to believe, 
some confidence and openness on your part will be ne- 
cessary to give the right impulse to my zeal — I press for 
no more at present, it is enough that you understand me.” 

‘‘ I understand you !” said the page, exhibiting the ap- 
pearance of unfeigned surprise in his turn,- — “ Renounce 
20 VOL. I. 


230 


THE ABBOT. 


rne if I do — here you stand jiggelting, and sniggling, and 
looking cunning, as if there were some mighty matter of 
intrigue and common understanding betwixt you and me, 
whom you never set your eyes on before !” 

“ What !” said Roland Graeme, “ will you deny that 
we have met before ?” 

“ Marry that I will, in any Christian court,” said the 
other page. 

“ And will you also deny,” said Roland, “ that it was 
recommended to us to study each other’s features well, 
that in whatever disguise the time might impose upon 
us, each should recognize in the other the secret agent 
of a mighty work f Do not you remember, that Sister 
Magdalen and Dame Bridget” 

The Messenger here interrupted him, shrugging up his 
shoulders with a look of compassion, “ Bridget and Mag- 
dalen ! why this is madness and dreaming! Hark ye, 
master Holly-top, your wits are gone on wool-gathering ; 
comfort yourself with a caudle, thatch your brain-sick 
noddle with a woollen night-cap, and so God be with you!” 

As he concluded this polite parting address, Adam 
Woodcock, who was again seated by the table on which 
stood the now empty can, said to him, “ Will you drink 
a cup, young man, in the way of courtesy, now you have 
done your errand, and listen to a good song f” and with- 
out waiting for an answer, he commenced his ditty, — 

'' The Pope, that pagan full of pride, 

Hath blinded as full long’’ 

It is probable that the good wine had made some inno- 
vation in the falconer’s brain, otherwise he would have 
recollected the danger of introducing anything like polit- 
ical or polemical pleasantry into a public assemblage, at 
a time when men’s minds were in a state of great irrita- 
bility. To do him justice, he perceived his error, and 
stopped short so soon as he saw that the word pope had 
at once interrupted the separate conversations of the vari- 
ous parties which were assembled in the apartment ; and 
that many began to draw themselves up, bridle, look big 


THE ABBOT. 


231 


and prepare lo take part in the impending brawl ; while 
others, more decent and cautious persons, hastily paid 
down their lawing, and prepared to leave the place ere 
bad should come to worse. 

And to worse it was soon likely to come ; for no sooner 
did Woodcock’s ditty reach the ear of the stranger page, 
than, uplifting his riding-rod, he exclaimed, “ He wlio 
speaks irreverently of the Holy Father of the church in 
my presence, is the cub of a heretic wolf-bitch, and I 
will switch him as I would a mongrel cur!” 

“ And I will break thy young pate,” said Adam, “ if 
thou darest to lift a finger to me.” And then, in defiance 
of the young Drawcansir’s threats, with a stout heart and 
dauntless accent, he again uplifted the stave, 

‘‘ The Pope, that pagan full of pride, 

Hath blinded" 

But Adam was able to proceed no farther, being him- 
self unfortunately blinded by a stroke of the impatient 
youth’s switch across his eyes. Enraged at once by the 
smart and the indignity, the falconer started up, and dark- 
ling as he was— for his eyes watered too fast to permit his 
seeing anything— he would soon have been at close grips 
with his insolent adversary, had not Roland Grasme, con- 
trary to his nature, played for once the prudent man and 
the peace-maker, and thrown himself betwixt them, im- 
ploring Woodcock’s patience. “ You know not,” he 
said, “ with whom you have to do. — And thou,” address- 
ing the messenger, who stood scornfully laughing at 
Adam’s rage, “ get thee gone, whoever thou art ; if thou 
be’st what I guess thee, thou well knowest there are earn- 
est reasons why thou shouldst.” 

“ Thou hast hit it right for once. Holly-top,” said the 
gallant, “ though I guess you drew your bow at a venture. 
Here, host, let this yeoman have a pottle of wine to wash 
the smart out of his eyes — and there is a French crown 
for him.” So saying, he threw the piece of money on the 
table, and left the apartment, wilh a quick yet steady 
pace, looking firmly at right and left, as if to defy inter- 


232 


THE ABBOT. 


ruption ; and snapping his fingers at two or three respect- 
able burghers, who, declaring it was a shame that any 
one should be suffered to rant and ruffle in defence of 
the Pope, w^ere labouring to find the hilts of their swords, 
which had got for the present unhappily entangled in the 
folds of their cloaks. But, as the adversary was gone 
ere any of them had reached his weapon, they did not 
think it necessary to unsheathe cold iron, but merely ob- 
served to each other, “ This is more than masterful vio- 
lence, to see a poor man stricken in the face, just for 
singing a ballad against the whore of Babylon ! If the 
Pope’s champions are to be bangsters in our very change- 
houses, we shall soon have the old shavelings back again.” 

“ The provost should look to it,” said another, “ and 
have some five or six armed with partizans, to come in 
upon the first whistle, to teach these gallants their lesson. 
For, look you, neighbour Lugleather, it is not for decent 
householders like ourselves to be brawling with the god- 
less grooms and pert pages of the nobles, that are bred 
up to little else save bloodshed and blasphemy.” 

“ For all that, neighbour,” said Lugleather, “ I would 
have curried that youngster as properly as ever I curried 
a lamb’s hide, had not the hilt of my bilbo been for the 
instant beyond my grasp ; and before I could turn my 
girdle, gone was my master!” 

“ Ay,” said the others, “ the devil go with him, and 
peace abide with us — I give my rede, neighbours, that 
we pay the lawing, and be stepping homeward, like 
brother and brother ; for old Saint Giles’s is tolling cur- 
few, and the street grows dangerous at night.” 

With that the good burghers adjusted their cloaks, and 
prepared for their departure, while he that seemed the 
briskest of the three, laying his hand on his Andrea Fer- 
rara, observed, “ that they that spoke in praise of the 
Pope on the High-gate of Edinburgh, had best bring the 
sword of Saint Peter to defend them.” 

While the ill-humour, excited by the insolence of the 
young aristocrat was thus evaporating in empty menace, 
Roland Graeme had to control the far more serious indig- 


THE ABBOT. 


233 


nation of Adam Woodcock. “ Why, man, it was but a 
switch across the mazzard — blow your nose, dry your 
eyes, and you will see all the better for it.” 

“ By this liglit, which I cannot see,” said Adam Wood- 
cock, “ thou hast been a false friend to me, young man — 
neither taking up my rightful quarrel, nor letting me fight 
it out myself.” 

“ Fy for shame, Adam Woodcock,” replied the youth, 
determined to turn the tables on him, and become in turn 
the counsellor of good order and peaceable demeanour — 
“ I say, fy for shame !— Alas, that you will speak thus ! 
Here are you sent with me, to prevent my innocent youth 
getting into snares — ” 

“ I wish your innocent youth were cut short with a 
halter, with all my heart!” said Adam, who began to see 
which way the admonition tended. 

“ — And instead of setting before me,” continued Ro- 
land, “ an example of patience and sobriety becoming 
the falconer of Sir Halbert Glendinning, you quaff me 
off I know not how many flagons of ale, besides a gallon 
of wine, and a full measure of strong waters !” 

“ It was but one small pottle,” said poor Adam, whom 
consciousness of his own indiscretion now reduced to a 
merely defensive warfare. 

“ It was enough to pottle you handsomely, however,” 
said the page — “ And then, instead of going to bed to 
sleep off your liquor, must you sit singing your roistering 
songs about popes and pagans, till you have got your eyes 
almost switched out of your head ; and but for my in- 
terference, whom your drunken ingratitude accuses of 
deserting you, yon galliard would have cut your throat, 
for he was whipping out a whinger as broad as my hand 
and as sharp as a razor — And these are lessons for an 
inexperienced youth I — Oh, Adam I out upon you ! out 
upon you !” 

“ Marry, amen, and with all my heart,” said Adam ; 
‘‘ out upon my folly for expecting anything but impertinent 
raillery from a page like thee, that if he saw his father in 
a scrape, would laugh at him instead of lending him aid !” 

20 * VOL. I. 


234 


THE ABBOT. 


‘‘ Nay, but I will lend you aid,’^ said the page, still 
laughing, ‘‘ that is, I will lend thee aid to thy chamber, 
good Adam, where thou shalt sleep off wine and ale, ire 
and indignation, and awake the next morning with as 
much fair wit as nature has blessed thee withal. Only 
one thing I will warn thee, good Adam, that henceforth 
and forever, when thou railest at me for being somewhat 
hot at hand, and rather too prompt to out with poniard or 
so, thy admonition shall serve as a prologue to the memo- 
rable adventure of the switching of Saint Michael’s.” 

With such condoling expressions he got the crest-fal- 
len falconer to his bed, and then retired to his own pallet, 
where it was some time ere he could fall asleep. If the 
messenger whom he had seen were really Catherine Sey- 
ton, what a masculine virago and termagant must she be ! 
and stored with what an inimitable command of insolence 
and assurance !— The brass on her brow would furbish 
the front of twenty pages, “and I should know,” thought 
Roland, “what that amounts to — And yet, her features, 
her look, her light gait, her laughing eye, the art with 
which she disposed the mantle to show no more of her 
limbs than needs must be seen — I am glad she had at 
least that grace left — the voice, the smile — it must have 
been Catherine Seyton, or the devil in her likeness ! One 
thing is good, I have silenced the eternal predications of 
that ass, Adam Woodcock, who has set up for being a 
preacher and a governor over me, so soon as he has left 
the hawks’ mew behind him.” 

And with this comfortable reflection, joined to the hap- 
py indifference w^hich youth hath for the events of the 
morrow, Roland Graeme fell fast asleep. 


THE ABBOT. 


235 


CHAPTER XX. 

Now have you reft me from my staff, my guide, 

Who taught my youth, as men teach untamed falcons. 

To use my strength discreetly — I am reft 
Of comrade and of counsel. 

Old Phxj. 

In the grey of the next morning’s dawn there was a 
loud knocking at the gate of the hostelry ; and those with- 
out, proclaiming that they came in the name of the Re- 
gent, were instantly admitted. A moment or two after- 
wards, Michael Wing-the-wind stood by the bed-side of 
our travellers. 

“ Up ! up !” he said, “ there is no slumber where 
Murray hath work ado.” 

Both sleepers sprung up, and began to dress them- 
selves. 

“ You, old friend,” said Wing-the-wind to Adam 
Woodcock, “ must to horse instantly, with this packet to 
the monks of Kennaquhair ; and with this,” delivering 
them as he spoke, “ to the Knight of Avenel.” 

“ As much as commanding the monks to annul their 
election. I’ll warrant me, of an Abbot,” quoth Adam 
Woodcock, as he put the packets into his bag, “ and 
charging my master to see it done — To hawk at one 
brother with another, is less than fair play, methinks.” 

“ Fash not thy beard about it, old boy,” said Michael, 
“ hut betake thee to the saddle presently ; for if these 
orders are not obeyed, there will be bare walls at the 
Kirk of Saint Mary’s, and it may be at the Castle of Ave- 
nel to boot ; for 1 heard my Lord of Morton, loud with 
the Regent, and we are at a pass that we cannot stand 
with him anent trifles.” 

“ But,” said Adam, “ touching the Abbot of Unreason 
— what say they to that outbreak ^ — And they be shrew- 


236 


THE ABBOT. 


isbly disposed, I were better pitch tbe packets to Satan, 
and take tbe other side of tbe Border for rny bield.” 

“ O, that was past over as a jest, since there was little 
harm done. — But, bark thee, Adam,” continued bis com- 
rade, “ if there were a dozen vacant abbacies in your road, 
whether of jest or earnest, reason or unreason, draw thou 
never one of their mitres over thy brows — The lime is 
not fitting, man ! — besides, our Maiden longs to clip the 
neck of a fat churchman.” 

‘‘ She shall never sheer mine in that capacity,” said 
|he falconer, while he knotted the kerchief in two or three 
double folds around his sun-burnt bull-neck, calling out 
at the same time, “ Master Roland, Master Roland, 
make haste ! we must back to perch and mew, and thank 
heaven more than our own wit, with our bones whole, 
and without a stab in the stomach.” 

“ Nay, but,” said Wing-the-wind, “ the page goes 
not back with you, the Regent has other employment 
for him.” 

“ Saints and sorrows !” exclaimed the falconer — 
“ Master Roland Graeme to remain here, and I to return 
to Avenel ! — Why, it cannot be — the child cannot manage 
himseir in this wide world without me, and I question if 
he will stoop to any other whistle than mine owm ; there 
are times I myself can hardly bring him to my lure.” 

It was at Roland’s tongue’s end to say something con- 
cerning the occasion they had for using mutually each 
other’s prudence, but the real anxiety which Adam evinc- 
ed at parting with him took away his disposition to such 
ungracious raillery. The falconer did not altogether es- 
cape, however, for, in turning his face towards the lattice, 
his friend Michael caught a glimpse of it, and exclaimed, 
“ I prithee, Adam Woodcock, what hast thou been doing 
with these eyes of thine f They are swelled to the start- 
ing from the socket !” 

“ Nought in the world,” said he, after casting a depre- 
cating glance at Roland Grasme, “ but the effect of sleep- 
ing in this d d truckle without a pillow.” 


THE ABBOT. 


237 


“ Why, Adam Woodcock, thou must be grown strange- 
ly dainty,” said his old companion ; “ I have known thee 
sleep all night with no better pillow than a bush of ling, 
and start up with the sun, as glegg as a falcon ; and now 
thine eyes resemble” 

“ Tush, man, what signifies how mine eyes look now ?” 
said Adam — “ let us but roast a crab-apple, pour a pottle 
of ale on it, and bathe our throats withal, thou shall see 
a change in me.” 

“ And thou wilt be in heart to -sing thy jolly ballad, 
about the pope,” said his comrade. 

“ Ay, that 1 will,” replied the falconer, “ that is, when 
we have left this quiet town five miles behind us, if you 
will take your hobby and ride so far on my way.” 

“ Nay, that I may not,” said Michael — “ I can but 
stop to partake your morning’s draught, and see you fairly 
to horse — I will see that they saddle them, and toast the 
crab for thee, without loss of time.” 

During his absence the falconer took the page by the 
hand — “May I never hood hawk again,” said the good- 
natured fellow, “ if I am not as sorry to part with you as 
if you were a child of mine own, craving pardon for the 
freedom — I cannot tell what makes me love you so much, 
unless it be for the reason that I loved the vicious devil 
of a brown galloway nag, whom my master the Knight 
called Satan, till Master Warden changed his name to 
Seyton ; for he said it was over boldness to call a beast 
after the. King of Darkness” 

“ And,” said the page, “ it was over boldness in him, 
I trow, to call a vicious brute after a noble family.” 

“ Well,” proceeded Adam, “ Seyton or Satan, I loved 
that nag over every other horse in the stable — There was 
no sleeping on his back — he w’as forever fidgetting, bolt- 
ing, rearing, biting, kicking, and giving you work to do, 
and may be the measure of your back on the heather to 
the boot of it all. And I think I love you better than any 
lad in the castle, for the self-same qualities.” 

“ Thanks, thanks, kind Adam. I regard myself bound 
to you for the good estimation in which you hold me.” 


238 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Nay, interrupt me not,” said the falconer — ‘‘ Satan 
was a good nag — But, I say,l think I shall call the two 
eyasses after you, the one Roland, and the other Graeme ; 
and, while Adam Woodcock lives, be sure you have a 
friend — Here is to thee, my dear son.” 

Roland most heartily returned the grasp of the hand, 
and Woodcock, having taken a deep draught, continued 
his farewell speech. 

“ There are three things I warn you against, Roland, 
now that you are to tread this weary world without my 
experience to assist you. In the first jtlace, never draw 
dagger on slight occasion — every man’s doublet is not so 
well stuffed as a certain Abbot’s that you wot of. Sec- 
ondly, fly not at every pretty girl, like a merlin at a thrush 
— you will not always win a gold chain for your labour — 
and, by the way, here I return to you your fanfarona — 
keep it close, it is weighty, and may benefit you at a 
pinch more ways than one. Thirdly, and to conclude, 
as our worthy preacher says, beware of the pottle-pot — 
it lias drenched the judgment of wiser men than you. 

I could bring some instances of it, but I dare say it need- 
eth not ; for if you should forget your own mishaps, you 
will scarce fail to remember mine — And so farewell, my . 
dear son.” 

Roland returned his good wishes, and failed not to send 
his humble duty to his kind Lady, charging the falconer, 
at the same time, to express his regret that he should 
have offended her, and his determination so to bear him 
in the world that she would not be ashamed of the gen- 
erous protection she had afforded him. 

The falconer embraced his young friend, mounted his 
stout, round-made, trotting nag, which the serving-man, 
who had attended him, held ready at the door, and took 
the road to the southward. A sullen and heavy sound 
echoed from the horse’s feet, as if indicating the sorrow 
of the good-natured rider. Every hoof-tread seemed 
to tap upon Roland’s heart as he heard his comrade with- 
draw with so little of his usual alert activity, and felt that 
he was once more alone in the world. 


THE ABBOT. 


239 


He was roused from his reverie by Michael Wing-the 
wind, who reminded him that it was necessary they should 
instantly return to the palace, as my Lord Regent went 
to the Sessions early in the morning. They went thither 
accordingly, and Wing-the-wind, a favourite old domes- 
tic, who was admitted nearer to the Regent’s person and 
privacy, than many whose posts were more ostensible, 
soon introduced Graeme into a small matted chamber, 
where he had an audience of the present head of the 
troubled State of Scotland. The Earl of Murray was 
clad in a sad-coloured morning-gown, with a cap and 
slippers of the same cloth, but, even in this easy disha- 
bille, held his sheathed rapier in his hand, a precaution 
which he adopted when receiving strangers, rather in 
compliance with the earnest remonstrances of his friends 
and partizans, than from any personal apprehensions of 
his own. He answered with a silent nod the respectful 
obeisance of the page, and took one or two turns through 
the small apartment in silence, fixing his keen eye on 
Roland, as if he wished to penetrate into his very soul. 
At length he broke silence. 

“ Your name is, I think, Julian Graeme?” 

“ Roland Graeme, my lord, not Julian,” replied the 
page. 

“ Right — I was misled by some trick of my memory 
— Roland Graeme, from the Debateahle Land. — Roland, 
thou knowest the duties which belong to a lady’s ser- 
vice 

“ 1 should know them, my lord,” replied Roland, 
“ having been bred so near the person of my Lady of 
Avenel ; but I trust never more to practise them as the 
Knight hath promised”-^ 

“ Be silent, young man,” said the Regent, “ I am to 
speak, and you to hear and obey. It is necessary 
that, for some space at least, you shall again enter into 
the service of a lady, who, in rank, hath no equal in 
Scotland ; and this service accomplished, I give thee 
my word as Knight and Prince, that it shall open to you 
a course of ambition, such as may well gratify the as- 


240 


THE ABBOT. 


piring wishes of one whom circumstances entitle to en- 
tertain much higher views than thou. 1 will take thee 
into my household and near to my person, or, at your 
own choice, 1 will give you the command of a foot-com- 
pany — either is a preferment which the proudest laird 
in the land might be glad to ensure for a second son.” 

“ May 1 presume to ask, my lord,” said Roland, ob- 
serving the Earl paused for a reply, “ to whom my poor 
services are in the first place destined ?” 

“ You will be told hereafter,” said the Regent ; and 
then, as if overcoming some internal reluctance to speak 
further himself, he added, “ or why should I not myself 
tell you, that you are about to enter into the service of a 
most illustrious — most unhappy lady — into the service 
of Mary of Scotland.” 

“ Of the Queen, my lord !” said the page, unable to 
repress his surprise. 

“ Of her who was the Queen !” said Murray, with 
a singular mixture of displeasure and embarrassment in 
his tone of voice. “ You must be aware, young man, 
that her son reigns in her stead.” 

He sighed from an emotion, partly natural perhaps, 
and partly assumed. 

“ And am I to attend upon her Grace in her place of 
imprisonment, my lord ?” again demanded the page, 
with a straight-forward and hardy simplicity, which 
somewhat disconcerted the sage and powerful statesman. 

“ She is not imprisoned,” answered Murray, angrily ; 
“ God forbid she should — she is only sequestrated from 
state affairs, and from the business of the public, until 
the world be so effectually settled, that she may en- 
joy her natural and uncontrolled freedom, without her 
royal disposition being exposed to the practices of wicked 
and designing men. It is for this purpose,” he added, 
“ that while she is to be furnished, as right is, with such 
attendance as may befit her present secluded state, it 
becomes necessary that those placed around her, are 
persons on whose prudence I can have reliance. You 


THE ACIiOT. 


241 


SGG, tliGrcfoPG, you arG at oncG called on to discharge an 
office most honourable in itself, and so to discharge it 
that you may make a friend of the Regent of Scotland. 
Thou art, I have been told, a singularly apprehensive 
youth ; and I perceive by thy look, that thou dost already 
understand what 1 would say on this matter. In this sched- 
ule your particular points of duty are set down at length 

but the sum required of you is fidelity — I mean fidelity 
to myself and to the state. You are, therefore, to watch 
every attempt which is made, or inclination displayed, 
to open any communication with any of the lords who 

have become banders in the west with Hamilton, 

Seyton, with Fleming, or the like. It is true that my 
gracious sister, reflecting upon the ill chances that have 
happened to the state of this poor kingdom, from evil 
counsellors who have abused her royal nature in time 
past, hath determined to sequestrate herself from state 
affairs in future. But it is our duty, as acting for and in 
the name of our infant nephew, to guard against the evils 
which may arise from any mutation or vacillation in her 
royal resolutions. Wherefore it will be thy duty to 
watch, and report to our lady mother, whose guest our 
sister is for the present, whatever may infer a disposition 
to withdraw her person from the place of security in 
which she is lodged, or to open communication with 
those without. If, however, your observation should 
detect any thing of weight, and which may exceed mere 
suspicion, fail not to send notice by an especial messen- 
ger to me directly, and this ring shall be thy warrant to 
order horse and man on such service. — And now begone. 
If there be half the wit in thy head that there is appre- 
hension in thy look, thou fully comprehendest all that I 
would say — Serve me faithfully, and sure as I am belt- 
ed earl, thy reward shall be great. 

Roland Graeme made an obeisance, and was about 
to depart. 

The Earl signed to him to remain. “ I have trusted 
thee deeply,” he said, “young man, for thou art the 
21 VOL. I. 


242 


THE ABBOT. 


only one of her suite who has been sent lO her by my 
own recommendation. Her gentlewomen are of her 
own nomination — it were too hard to have barred her 
that privilege, though some there were who reckoned 
it inconsistent with sure policy. Thou art young and 
handsome. Mingle in their follies, and see they cover 
not deeper designs under the appearance of female levity 
— if they do mine, do thou countermine. For the rest, 
bear all decorum and respect to the person of thy mis- 
tress — she is a princess, though a most unhappy one, and 
hath been a queen, though now, alas ! no longer such — 
Pay, therefore, to her all honour and respect, consistent 
with thy fidelity to the King and me — and now, farewell. 
— Yet stay — you travel with Lord Lindesay, a man of 
the old world, rough and honest, though untaught; see 
that thou offend him not, for he is not patient of raillery, 
and thou, I have heard, art a crack-halter.” This he 
said with a smile, then added, “I could have wished the 
Lord Lindesay’s mission had been entrusted to some 
other and more gentle noble.” 

“ And wherefore should you wish that, my lord ?” 
said Morton, who even then entered the apartment-; “ the 
council have decided for the best — we have had but too 
many proofs of this lady’s stubbornness of mind, and the 
oak that resists the sharp steel axe, must be riven with 
the rugged iron wedge. And this is to be her page ? — 
My Lord Regent hath doubtless instructed you, young 
man, how you shall guide yourself in these matters ; I 
will add but a little hint on my part. You are going to 
the castle of a Douglas, where treachery never thrives — 
the first moment of suspicion will be the last of your life. 
My kinsman, William Douglas, understands no raillery, 
and. if he once have cause to think you false, you will 
waver in the wind from the castle battlements ere the 
sun set upon his anger. — And is the lady to have an 
almoner withal ?” 

“ Occasionally, Douglas,” said the Regent ; ‘‘ it were 
hard to deny the spiritual consolation which she thinks 
essential to her salvation.” 


THE ABBOT. 


243 


‘‘You are ever too soft-hearted, my lord — What! a 
false priest to communicate her lamentations, not only to 
our unfriends in Scotland, but to the Guises, to Rome, 
to Spain, and 1 know not where !” 

“Fear not,” said the Regent, “we will take such 
order that no treachery shall happen.” 

“Look to it then,” said Morton; “you know my 
mind respecting the wench you have consented she shall 
receive as a waiting-woman — one of a family, which, 
of all others, has ever been devoted to her, and inimical 
to us. Had we not been wary, she would have been 
purveyed of a page as much to her purpose as her wait- 
^.ng-damsel. I hear a rumour that an old mad Romish 
pilgrimer, who passes for at least half a saint among them, 
was employed to find a fit subject.” 

“ We have escaped that danger at least,” said Mur- 
ray, “ and converted it into a point of advantage by 
sending this boy of Glendinning’s — and for her waiting 
damsel, you cannot grudge her one poor maiden instead 
of her four noble Maries, and all their silken train?” 

“ I care not so much for the waiting-maiden,” said 
Morton, “ but I cannot brook the almoner- — 1 think priests 
of all persuasions are much like each other — Here is 
John Knox, who made such a noble puller-down, is am- 
bitious of becoming a settcr-up, and a founder of schools 
and colleges out of the Abbey lands, and bishops’ rents, 
and other spoils of Rome, which the nobility of Scotland 
have won with their sword and bow, and with which he 
would now endow new hives to sing the old drone.” 

“John is a man of God,” said the Regent; “ and his 
scheme is a devout imagination.” 

The sedate smile with which this was spoken, left it 
impossible to conjecture whether the words were meant 
in approbation, or in derision, of the plan of the Scottish 
Reformer. Turning then to Roland Grseme, as if he 
thought he had been long enough a witness of this con- 
versation, he bade him get him presently to horse, since 
-riy Lord of Lindesay was already mounted. The page 
made his reverencejand left the apartment. 


244 


THE ABBOT. 


Guided by Michael Wing-tbe-wind, he found ])is horse 
ready saddled and prepared for the journey in front of 
the palace porch, where hovered about a score of men- 
at-arms, whose leader showed no small symptoms of 
surly impatience. 

“ Is this the jackanape page for whom we have wait- 
ed thus long said he to Wing-the-wind. — “And my 
Lord Ruthven will reach the castle long before us!” 

Michael assented, and added that the boy had been 
detained by the Regent to receive some parting instruc- 
tions. The leader made an inarticulate sound in his 
throat, expressive of sullen acquiescence, and calling 
to one of his domestic attendants, “ Edward,” said he, 
“ take the gallant into your charge, and let him speak 
with no one else.” 

He then addressed, by the title of Sir Robert, an 
elderly and respectable-looking gentleman, the only one 
of the party who seemed above the rank of a retainer or 
domestic, and observed that they must get to horse with 
all speed. 

During this discourse, and while they were riding 
slowly along the street of the suburb, Roland had time 
to examine more accurately the looks and figure of the 
Baron, who was at their head. 

Lord Lindesay of the Byres was rather touched than 
stricken with years. His upright stature and strong limbs 
still showed him fully equal to all the exertions and fa- 
tigues of war. His thick eyebrows, now partially griz- 
zled, lowered over large eyes full of dark fire, which 
seemed yet darker from the uncommon depth at which 
they were set in his head. His features, naturally strong 
and harsh, had their sternness exaggerated by one or two 
scars received in battle. These features, naturally cal- 
culated to express the harsher passions, were shaded by 
an open steel cap, with a projecting front, but having 
no visor, over the gorget of which fell the black and 
grizzled beard of the grim old Baron, and totally hid the 
lower part of his face. The rest of his dress was a loose 
buff-coat, which had once been lined with silk and adorn- 


THE ABBOT. 


245 


ed with embroidery, but which seemed much stained 
with travel, and damaged with cuts, received probably 
in battle. It covered a corslet, which had once been of 
polished steel, fairly gilded, but was now somewhat in- 
jured with rust. A sword of antique make and uncom- 
mon size, framed to be wielded with both hands, a kind 
of weapon which was then beginning to go out of use, 
hung from his neck in a baldrick, and was so disposed 
as to traverse his whole person, the huge hilt appearing 
over his left shoulder, and the point reaching well nigh 
to the right heel, and jarring against his spur as he walk- 
ed. This unwieldy weapon could only be unsbeatbed 
by pulling the handle over the left shoulder — for no hu- 
man arm was long enough to draw it in the usual man- 
ner. The whole equipment was that of a rude warrior, 
negligent of his exterior even to misanthropical sullen- 
ness ; and the short, harsh, haughty tone, which he used 
towards his attendants, belonged to the same unpolished 
character. 

The personage who rode with Lord Lindesay, at the 
head of the party, was an absolute contrast to him, in 
manner, form, and features. His thin and silky hair was 
already white, though he seemed not above forty-five 
or fifty years old. His tone of voice was soft and insin- 
uating — his form thin, spare, and bent by an habitual 
stoop — his pale cheek was expressive of shrewdness and 
intelligence — his eye was quick though placid, and his 
whole demeanour mild and conciliatory. He rode an 
ambling nag, such as were used by ladies, clergymen, 
or others of peaceful professions — wore a riding habit of 
black velvet, with a cap and feather of the same hue, 
fastened up by a gold medal — and for show, and as a 
mark of rank rather than for use, carried a walking 
sword, (as the short light rapiers were called,) without 
any other arms offensive, or defensive. 

The party had now quitted the town, and proceeded, 
at a steady trot, towards the west. — As tliey prose- 
cuted their journey, Roland Grajme would gladly have 
21 * VOL. I. 


246 


THE ABBOT. 


learned something of its purpose and tendency, but the 
countenance of the personage next to whom lie had been 
placed in the train, discouraged all approach to familiar- 
ity. The Baron himself did not look more grim and 
inaccessible than his feudal retainer, whose grizzly 
beard fell over his mouth like the portcullis before the 
gate of a castle, as if for the purpose of preventing the 
escape of any word, of which absolute necessity did not 
demand the utterance. The rest of the train seemed 
under the same taciturn influence, and journeyed on 
without a word being exchanged amongst them — more 
like a troop of Carthusian friars than a parly of military 
retainers. Roland Grajme was surprised at this extrem- 
ity of discipline ; for even in the household of the Knight 
of Avenel, though somewhat distinguished for the accu- 
racy with which decorum was enforced, a journey was 
a period of licence, during which jest and song, and 
every thing within the limits of becoming mirth and pas- 
time, was freely permitted. This unusual silence was, 

, however, so far acceptable, that it gave him time to 
bring any, shadow of judgment wdiich he possessed to 
counsel on his own situation and prospects, which would 
have appeared to any reasonable person in the highest 
degree dangerous and perplexing. 

It was quite evident that he had, through various cir- 
cumstances not under his own control, formed contra- 
dictory connexions with both the contending factions, by 
whose strife the kingdom was distracted, without being 
properly an adherent of either. It seemed also clear, 
that the same situation in the household of the deposed 
Queen, to which he was now promoted by the influence 
of the Regent, had been destined to him by his enthu- 
siastic grandmother, Magdalen Graeme ; for on this sub- 
ject, the words which Morton had dropped had been a 
ray of light : yet it was no less clear that these two per- 
sons — the one the declared enemy, the other the enthu- 
siastic votary, of the Catholic religion — the one at the 
head of the King’s new government, the other, who re- 
garded that government as a criminal usurpation, — must 


THE ABBOT. 


247 


have required and expected very different services from 
the individual whom they had thus united in recommend- 
ing. It required very little reflection to foresee that these 
contradictory claims on his service might speedily place 
him in a situation wliere iiis lionour as well as his life 
might be endangered. But it was not in Roland Graeme’s 
nature to anticipate evil before it came, or to prepare to 
combat difficulties before they arrived. “ 1 will see this 
beautiful and unfortunate Mary Stuart,” said he, “ of 
whom we have heard so much, and then there will be 
time enough to determine whether I will be kingsman 
or queensman. None of them can say I have given 
word or promise to either of their factions ; for they 
have led me up and down like a blind Billy, without 
giving me any light into what I was to do. But it was 
lucky that grim Douglas came into the Regent’s closet 
this morning, otherwise 1 had never got free of him 
without plighting my troth to do all the Earl would have 
me, which seemed, after all, but foul play to the poor 
imprisoned lady, to place her page as an espial on her.” 

Skipping thus lightly over a matter of such conse- 
quence, the thoughts of the hairbrained boy went a 
wool-gathering after more agreeable topics. Now, he ad- 
mired the Gothic towers of Barnbougle, rising from the 
sea-beaten rock, and overlooking one of the most glo- 
rious landscapes in Scotland — and now he began to con- 
sider wdiat notable sport for the hounds and the hawks 
must be afforded by the variegated ground over which 
they travelled— ::and now he compared the steady and 
dull trot at which they were then prosecuting their jour- 
ney, with the delight of sweeping over hill and dale in 
pursuit of his favourite sports. As, under the influence 
of these joyous recollections, he gave his horse the spur, 
and made liim execute a gambade, he instantly incurred 
the censure of his grave neighbour, who hinted to him 
to keep the pace, and move quietly and in order, unless 
he wished such notice to be taken of his eccentric move- 
ments as was likely to be very displeasing to him. 


248 


THE ABEOT. 


\ 


The rebuke and the restraint under which the youth 
now found himself, brought back to his recollection his 
late good-humoured and accommodating associate and 
guide, Adam Woodcock ; and from that topic his ima- 
gination made a short flight to Avenel Castle, to the 
quiet and unconfined life of its inhabitants, the goodness 
of his early protectress, not forgetting the denizens of 
its stables, kennels, and hawk-mews. In a brief space, 
all these subjects of meditation gave way to the remem- 
brance of that riddle of womankind, Catherine Seyton, 
who appeared before the eye of his mind — now in her 
female form — now in her male attire — now in both at 
once — like some strange dream, which presents to us 
the same individual under two different characters at 
the same instant. Her mysterious present also recurred 
to his recollection — the sword which he now wore at 
his side, and which he was not to draw, save by com- 
mand of his legitimate Sovereign ! But the key of this 
mystery he judged he was likely to find in the issue of 
his present journey. 

With such thoughts passing through his mind, Roland 
Graeme accompanied the party of Lord Lindesay to 
the Queen’s-Ferry, which they passed in vessels that 
lay in readiness for them. They encountered no ad- 
venture whatever in their passage, exce{)ting one horse 
being lamed in getting into the boat, an incident very 
common on such occasions, until a few years ago, when 
the Ferry was completely regulated. What was more 
peculiarly characteristic of the olden age, w^as the dis- 
charge of a culverin at the party from the battlements 
of the old castle of Rosythe on the north side of the 
Ferry, the lord of which happened to have some public 
or private quarrel with the Lord Lindesay, and took this 
mode of expressing his resentment. The insult, how- 
ever, as it was harmless, remained unnoticed and un- 
avenged, nor did any thing else occur worth notice until 
the band had come where Lochleven spread its mag- 
nificent sheet of waters to the beams of a briaht summer 
sun. 


THE ABBOT. 


249 


The ancient castle, which occupies an island nearly 
in the centre of the lake, recalled to the page that of 
Avenel, in vvliich he had been nurtured. But the lake 
was much larger, and adorned with several islets besides 
that on which the fortress was situated ; and instead of 
being embosomed in hills like that of Avenel, had upon 
the southern side only a splendid mountainous screen, 
being the descent of one of the Lomond hills, and on the 
other was surrounded by the extensive and fertile plain 
of Kinross. Roland Graeme looked with some degree 
of dismay on the water-girdled fortress, which then, as 
now, consisted only of one large Donjon-keep, surround- 
ed with a court-yard, with two round flanking-towers at 
the angles, which contained within its circuit some other 
buildings of inferior importance. A few old trees clus- 
tered together, near the castle, gave some relief to the 
air of desolate seclusion ; but yet the page, while he 
gazed upon a building so sequestrated, could not but feel 
for the situation of a captive Princess doomed to dwell 
there, as well as for his own. “I must have beenborn,” 
he thought, ‘‘underthe star that presides over ladies and 
lakes of water, for 1 cannot by any means escape from 
the service of the one, or from dwelling in the othei 
But if they allow me not the fair freedom of my sport 
and exercise, they shall find it as hard to confine a wild- 
drake, as a youth who can swim like one.” 

The band had now reached the edge of the water, and 
one of the party advancing displayed Lord Lindesay’s 
pennon, waving it repeatedly to and fro, while that Baron 
himself blew a clamorous blast on his bugle. A banner 
was presently displayed from the roof of the castle in 
reply to these signals, and one or two figures were seen 
busied as if unmooring a boat which lay close to the 
islet. 

“ It will be some time ere they can reach us with the 
boat,” said the companion of the Lord Lindesay ; 
“ should we not do well to proceed to the town, and 
array ourselves in some better order, ere we appear 
before” 


250 


THE ABBOT. 


‘‘ You may do as you list, Sir Robert,” replied Liii- 
desay, “ I have neither time nor temper to waste on such 
vanities. She has cost me many a hard ride, and must 
not now take offence at the thread-bare cloak and soiled 
doublet that I am arrayed in. It is the livery to which 
she has brought all Scotland.” 

“ Do not speak so harshly,” said Sir Robert ; “ if 
she hath done wrong, she hath dearly abyed it ; and in 
losing all real power, one would not deprive her of the 
little external homage due at once to a lady and a 
princess.” 

“ I say to you once more, Sir Robert Melville,” re- 
plied Lindesay, “ do as you will — for me, I am now too 
old to dink myself as a gallant to grace the bower of 
dames.” 

“ The bower of dames, my lord !” said Melville, look- 
ing at the rude old tower — “ is it yon dark and grated 
castle, the prison of a Captive Queen, to which you give 
so gay a name .?” 

“ Name it as you list,” replied Lindesay 5 “ had the 
Regent desired to send an envoy capable to speak to a 
Captive Queen, there are many gallants in his court who 
would have courted the occasion to make speeches out 
of Amadis of Gaul, or the Mirror of Knighthood. But 
when he sent blunt old Lindesay, he knew he would 
speak to a misguided woman, as her former misdoings 
and her present state render necessary. I sought not 
this employment — it has been thrust upon me ; and I 
will not cumber myself with more form in the discharge 
of it, than needs must be tacked to such an occupation.” 

So saying. Lord Lindesay threw himself from horse- 
back, and, wrapping his riding-cloak around him, lay 
down at lazy length upon the sward to await the arrival 
of the boat, which was now seen rowing from the castle 
towards the shore. Sir Robert Melville, who had also 
dismounted, walked at short turns to and fro upon the 
bank, his arms crossed on his breast, often looking to 
the castle, and displaying in his countenance a mixture 
of sorrow and of anxiety. The rest of the party sat 


THE ABBOT. 


251 


like statees on horseback, without moving so much as 
the points of their lances, which they held upright in 
the air. 

As soon as the boat approached a rude quay or land- 
ing-place, near to which they had stationed themselves. 
Lord Lindesay started up from his recumbent posture, and 
asked tiie person who steered, why he had not brought 
a larger boat with him to transport his retinue. 

“ So please you,” replied the boatman, “ because it is 
the order of our lady, that we bring not to the castle 
more than four persons.” 

“ Thy lady is a wise woman,” said Lindesay, “ to 
•suspect me of treachery !” — Or, had I intended it, what 
is to hinder us from throwing you and your comrades 
into the lake, and filling the boat with my own fellows 

The steersman, on hearing this, made a hasty signal 
to his men to back their oars, and hold off from the 
shore which they w’ere approaching. 

“ Why, thou ass,” said Lindesay, ‘‘thou didst not 
think that 1 meant tby fool’s head serious harm Hark 
thee, friend — with fewer than three servants I will go no 
whither — Sir Robert Ptlelville will require at least the 
attendance of one domestic ; and it will be at your peril 
and your la^dy’s to refuse us admission, come hither as 
we are on matters of great national concern.” 

The steersman answered with firmness, but with great 
civility of expression, that his orders were positive to 
bring no more than four into the island, but he offered 
to row back to obtain a revisal of his instructions. 

“ Do so, my friend,” said Sir Robert Melville, after 
he had in vain endeavoured to persuade his stubborn 
companion to consent to a temporary abatement of his 
train, “row back to the castle, sith it will be no better, 
and obtain thy lady’s orders to transport the Lord 
Lindesay, myself, and our retinue thither.” 

“ And hearken,” said Lord Lindesay, “ take with you 
this page who comes as an attendant on your lady’s 
guest. — Dismoijnt, sirrah,” said he, addressing Roland, 
“and embark with them in th.at boat.” 


252 


Tin-: ABBOT. 


‘‘ And what is to become of my horse ?” said Graeme ; 
“ I am answerable for him to my master.” 

“ 1 will relieve you of the charge,” said Lindesay; 
“ thou wilt have little enow to do with horse, saddle, or 
brible, for ten years to come — Thou rnay’st take the hal- 
ter an thou wilt — it may stand thee in a turn.” 

“ If I thought so,” said Roland — but he was inter- 
rupted by Sir Robert Melville, who said to him, good- 
humouredly, “ Dispute it not, young friend — resistance 
can do no good, but may well run thee into danger.” 

Roland Graeme felt the justice of what he said, and, 
though neither delighted with the matter nor manner of 
Lindesay’s address, deemed it best to submit to necessi- 
ty, and to embark without further remonstrance. • The 
men plied their oars. The quay, with the party of horse 
stationed near it, receded from the page’s eyes — the 
castle and the islet seemed to draw near in the same 
proportion, and in a brief space he landed under the 
shadow of a huge old tree which overhung the landing- 
place. The steersman and Graeme leaped ashore ; the 
boatmen remained lying on their oars ready for further 
service. 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT 


i 

1 Pa^e 7. The tracts which appeared in the Disputation between the 
Scottish Reformer and Ciuentin Kennedy, Abbot of Crossraguel^ are among 
the scarcest in Scottish Bibliography. See M'Crie’s Life of Knox, p. 258. 

2. Page 19. A district of Cumberland, lying close to the Scottish Border. 

3. Page 35. This was a house of ancient descent and superior conse- 
quence, including persons who fought at Bannockburn and Otterburn, and 
closely connected by alliance and friendship with the great Earls of Douglas. 
The Knight in the story argues as most Scotsmen would do in his situation, 
for all ol the same clan are popularly considered as descended from the same 
stock, and as having a right to the ancestral honour of the chief branch. This 
opinion, though sometimes ideal, is so strong, even at this day of innovation, 
that it may be observed as a national difference between my countrymen and 
the English. If you ask an Englishman of good birth, whether a person of 
the same name be connected with him, he answers, (if in dubio,) No — he is 
a mere nainesake.’' Ask a similar question of a Scot, (I mean a Scotsman,) 
he replies— He is one of our clan 5 I daresay there is a relationship, though 
I do not know how distant.'' The Englishman thinks of discountenancing a 
species of rivalry in society ; the Scotsman’s answer is grounded on the an- 
cient idea of strengthening the clan. 

4. Page 47. A species of battle-axe, so called as being in especial use in 
that ancient burgh, whose armorial bearings still represent an armed horse- 
man brandishing such a weapon. 

5. Page 79. This same bag, like every thing belonging to falconry, was 
esteemed an honourable distinction, and worn often by the nobility and gen- 
try. One of the Somervilles of Camnethan was called. Sir John with the red 
bag, because it was his wont to wear his hawking pouch covered with satin 
of that colour. 

6 . Page 84. I may here observe, that this is entirely an ideal scene. 
Saint CuOibert, a person of established sanctity, had, no doubt, several places 
of worship on the Borders, where he flourished whilst living 5 but Tillmouth 
Chapel is the only one which bears some resemblance to the hermitage tie- 
scribed in the text. It has, indeed, a well, famous for gratifying three wishes 
for every worshipper wlio shall quaff the fountain with sufticient belief in its 
eflicacy. At this spot the Saint is said to have landed in his stone coffin, in 
which he sailed down the Tweed from Melrose, and here the stone coftin long 
lay, in evidence of the fact. The late Sir Francis Blake Delayal is said to 
have taken the exact measure of the coffin, and to have ascertained, by hy- 
drostatic principles, that it might have actually swum. A profane farmer in 
the neighbourhood announced his intention of converting this last bed of the 
Sn.nt into a trough for his swino 3 but the profanation was rendered impossi- 

22 VOL. I. 


254 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT 


ble, either by the Saint, or by some pious votary in his belial/", for on the fol- 
lowing' morning the stone sarcophagus was found broken in two fragments. 

Tillmouth Chapel, with these points of resemblance, lies, however, in ex- 
actly the opposite direction as regards Melrose, which the supposed cell of 
Saint Cuthbert is said to have borne towards Kennaquhair. 

7. Page 85. An expression used by Sir Ralph Percy, slain in the battle 
of Hedgely-moor in 1404, when dying, to express his having preserved un- 
stained nis fidelity to the House of Lancaster. 

8. Page 99. The conmarison is taken from some beautiful verses in an 
old ballad, entitled Pause Foodrage, published in the “ Minstrelsy of the Scot- 
tish Border.'’ A deposed queen, to preserve her infant son from the traitors 
who have slain his father, exchanges him with the female off spring of a faith- 
ful friend, and goes on to direct the education of the children, and the private 
signals by which the parents are to hear news each of her own offspring. 

And you shall learn my gay goss-hawk 
Right well to breast a steed j 
And so will I your turtle dow. 

As well to write and read. 

And ye shall learn my gay goss-hawk 
To wield both bow and brand } 

And so will I your turtle dow, 

To lay gowd with her hand. 

At kirk or market when we meet, 

We'll dare make no avow. 

But, * Dame, how does my gay goss-hawk V 
* Madame, how does my dow V " 

9. Page 116. Earnest-money. 

10. Page 124. This, like the Cell of Saint Cuthbert, is an imaginary 
scene, but I took one or two ideas of the desolation of the interior from a story 
told me by my father. In his youth— it may be near eighty years since, as he 
was born in 1729 — he had occasion to visit an old lady who resided in a Bor- 
der castle of considerable renown. Only one very limited portion of the ex- 
tensive ruins sufficed for the accommo(iation of the inmates, and my father 
amused himself by wandering through the part that was untenanted. In a 
dining apartment, having a roof richly adorned with arches and drops, there 
was deposited a large stack of hay, to which calves were helping themselves 
from opposite sides. As my father w^as scaling a dark ruinous turnpike stair- 
case, his greyhound ran up before him, and probably was the means of saving 
his life, for the animal fell through a trap-door, or aperture in the stair, thus 
warning the owner of the danger of the ascent. As the dog continued howl- 
ing from a great depth, my father got the old butler, who alone knew most of 
the localities about the castle, to unlock a sort of stable, in which Killbuck 
was found safe and sound, the place being filled with the same commodity 
which littered the stalls of Augeas, and which had rendered the dog's fall an 
easy one. 

11. Page 129. A fanatic nun, called the Holy Maid of Kent, who pre- 
tended to the gift of prophecy and power of miracles. Having denounced 
the doom of speedy death against Henry VIH. for his marriage with Anne 
Boleyn, the prophetess was attainted in Parliament, and executed, with her 
accomplices. Her imposture was for a time so successful, that even Sir 
Thomas More was disposed to be a believer. 

12. Page 139. In Catholic countries, in order to reconcile the pleasures 
of the great with the observances of religion, it was common, when a partv 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT. 


255 


was bent for the chase, to celebrate mass, abridged and maimed of its rites, 
called a hunting-mass, the brevity of which was designed to correspond with 
the impatience of the audience. 

13. Page 141. We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon 
Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridi- 
culous ; and it is a transition from one extreme to another, so very easy, that 
the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the incli- 
nation to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of 
time, place, and circumstances^ render it peculiarly improper. Some species 
of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the mod- 
ern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times, and in 
almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic 
Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and 
magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could 
add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics 
of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least 
assumed, the privilege of making some Lord of the revels, who, under the 
name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, 
occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the 
sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indif- 
ference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent 
exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a 
strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious at- 
tempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. 
It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, 
and oAen admired, the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Ban- 
dello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as 
if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the 
laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by inde- 
cent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning 
the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric 
of ecclesiastical power. 

But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon 
as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail j and the license which t^ir fore- 
fathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention 
of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the com- 
mon people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priest- 
hood and its ceremonies. 

I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent toBorthwuk 
from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was 
opposed by ?in Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spir- 
itual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up 
his parchment citation. 

The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this in- 
cident,- which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1547. It ap- 
pears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Min- 
zeane mid the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against 
the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Lang- 
iands, an apparitor or macer (bacularius) of the See of St. Andrews, presented 
these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish 
the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the 
castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot 
of Unreason, a species of high-jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, 
who, like the Lord of Misrule in Englaudj turned all sort of lawful authority, 
and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with 
his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor’s character, entered the church, 
seized upon the primate’s officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the 
mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. 
Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced. 


256 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT. 


that Mr. William Lang'landswasnotyetsufficiently bathed, and therefore caus- 
ed his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most 
satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then con- 
ducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters 
of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine ; the 
mock abbot being’ probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry 
eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, 
and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that 
if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, 

they should a’ gang the same gate," i. e. go the same road. 

A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and 
Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, 
when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogjie,* 
which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be sup- 
posed appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion. 

* Harpool. Marry, sir, is this process parchment ? 

Sumner. Yes, marry is it. 

Harpool. And this seal wax ? 

Sumner. It is so. 

Harpool. If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment 
and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into 
wax. Sirrah Sumner, dispatch — devour, sirrah, devour. 

Sumner. I am my Lord of Rochester’s sumner 3 I came to do my office, 
and thou shalt answer it. 

Harpool. Sirrah, no railing, but betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt 
eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord 3 
and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? 

Sumner. Sir, I brought it not my lord to eat. 

Harpool. O, do you Sir me now ? All’s one for that 3 I’ll make you eat it 
for bringing it. 

Sumner. I cannot eat it. 

Harpool. Can you not ? ’Sblood, I’ll beat you till you have a stomach ! 

[Beats him.) 

Sumner. Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman 3 I will eat it. 

Harpool. Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. 
Tough wax is the purest of the honey. 

Sumner. The purest of the honey ! — O Lord, sir ! oh ! oh ! 

Harpool. Feed, feed 3 ’tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, 
like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bai- 
liff’s rents, but you must come to a nobleman’s house with process ? If the seal 
were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. 

Sumner. Oh, I am almost choked— I am almost choked ! 

Harpool. Who’s within there ? will you shame my lord ? is there no beer 
in the house ? Butler, I say. 

Enter Butler. 

Butler. Here, here. 

Harpool. Give him beer. Tough old sheep-skin ’s but dry meat. 

First Part of Sir John Oldcastle, Act II. Scene J. 

14. Page 143. This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high 
among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden 
chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet’s ejacula- 
tion,— 

But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot ! 

There is a ver}-^ comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher’s play of “ Women 
Pleased,’’ where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobler, refuses to dance 
with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the 
motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT. 


257 


Tlie learned Mr. Douce, v\ ho has coiilrihu'tcd .so much to the illustration of 
our theatrical antiquities, has given ns a full account of this pageant, and the 
burlesque horseinanslii|) which it practised. 

“ The hobby-horse,'’ sa^'s Mr. Douce, “ was represented by a man equip- 
ped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder 
parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects bein^ concealed by a long mantle 
or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, 
exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the 
Law-breakers, 1G36, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry 
that the mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, ‘ Let the 
mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will 5 I hope our town- 
lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have 1 practised my reins, my careers, my 
pranckers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury 
paces, and shall master mayor put me besides the hobby-horse ? Have I bor- 
rowed the forehorse bells, his plumes, his bra^•eries j nay, had his mane new 
shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me besides the hobby-horse^?' 
Douce's Illustrations, vol. II., p. 468. 

15. Page 14.3. The representation of Robin Hood was the darling May- 
game both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personifica- 
tion was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of 
frolic, gave an unusual degree of license. 

The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the op- 
portunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and 
the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, 
when these purposes were served, their fav'ourite pastimes deprived them of 
the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it 
can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very 
naive account of the manner in which, bishop as he w'as, he found himself 
compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. 

‘'I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I 
sent word over night into the towme that I w'ould preach there in the morning, 
because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The 
church stood in my way, and I tooke my horse and my company, and went 
thither. (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and 
when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe 
an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes 
to me, and said, — ‘ Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you ; it is 
Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. 

I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I 
thought my rochet should have been regarded, though 1 were not : but it 
would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood’s men. It is no 
laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie 
matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a 
thief^ to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed ; to preferre 
Robin Hood before the ministration of God’s w^ord ; and all this hath come of 
unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had 
such corrupt judgements in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God’s word ." — Bishop 
Lathner’s sixth Serinon before King Edward. 

While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the 
preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the 
celebrated .John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the mag- 
istrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, 
found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted 
to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. 

(1561.) Vpon the xxi day of Junij, Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, 
Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the 
samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillon, takin of befoir, for 
playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the 
Knawlcge of ane assyize qlk yaij haid elcclit of yair favoraris, quha with 


25S 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT 


schort deliberatioun coiidemnit him to be hang’ll for ye said cryme. And the 
deaconis of ye crartismen fearing vproare, maid^reat solistatnis at ye handis 
of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for es- 
chewing of tumult, to superceid ye executioun of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld 
adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he 
should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him 
yaire ; quha answerit, yat yei culd na way slope ye executioun of justice 
Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hang- 
man wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare 
should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes 
put to ye home with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Hude’sp/ayes, and 
vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said 
jibbat, and yan chacit ye said prov'est, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said 
Alexander’s writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye 
tolbuyt,and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes 
thairof, thai brake the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the 
said provest and baillies luckand thairon,) and not onlie put thar the said Gil- 
lione to fredome and libertie,and brocht him furth of the seud tolbuit, bot alsua 
the remanent personaris being thairintill ; and this done, the said craAismen’s 
servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to 
have past furth thairat j bot becaus the samyne on their coming thairto wes 
closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, 
and in this menetyme the saidis provest and baillies and thair assistaris being 
in the writting buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said 
tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth 
thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This 
being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and 
castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hag- 
buttis in the same agane. And sua the craftismen’s servandis, aboue written, 
held and inclosit the said proves! and baillies continewallie in the said tol- 
buyth, frae three houris eAernone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of 
the said town prensit to relieve thair said provest aud baillies. And than that 
send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said 
servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the 
same to ane finall end, fibr the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill 
thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them ; and thaireAer the constable ol 
the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters Ireatet betwix 
the said pties in this maner ; — That the said provost and baillies sail remit to 
the said craAischilder, all actioun, cryme, and oAens that thai had committit 
agaucs thame in any tyme bygane ; and band and oblast thame never to pur- 
sew them thairfor ; and als commandit their maisters to resaue them ag^ne in 
thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclamit at the mercat 
cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and baillies come furth of the same 
tolbouyth," &c. See. See. 

John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed 
by the deacons of craAs, who, resenting the superiority assumed over them 
by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They 
•will be magistrates alone,” said the recusant deacons^ “ e’en let them rule the 
populace alone and accordingly they passed quietly to take tkeir four- 
twurs penny, and leA the magistrates to telp themseWes as they could. Many 
persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not achnitted to church 
ordinances till they had made satisfaction. 

16. Page 156. These rude rh 3 Tnes are taken, with trifling alterations, 
from a ballad called Trim-go-trix. It occurs in a singular collection, entitled, 

A Compendious Book of Godly and Spiritual Songs, collected out of sun- 
drie parts of the Scripture, with sundry of other ballatis changed out of pro- 
phane sanges, for avoyding of sin and hariotrie, with Augmentation of sundrie 
Gude and Godly Baliates. Edinburgh, printed by Andro Hart.” This curi- 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT. 


259 


ous collecUoii has been reprinted in Mr. John Grahame DalyelFs Scottisn 
Poems of the 16lh Century. Edin. 1801, 2 vols. 

17. Page 159. Fox, an old-fashioned broadsword was often so called. 

18. Page 160. The Saint Swithin, or weeping Saint of Scotland. If his 
festival (fourth July) prove wet, forty days of rain are expected. 

19. Page 169. There is a popular belief respecting evil spirits, that they 
cannot enter an inhabited house unless invited, nay, dragged over the threshold. 
There is an instance of the same superstition in the Tales of the Genii, where 
an enchanter is supposed to have intruded himself into the Divan of the Sultan. 

‘ Thus,' said the illustrious Misnar, ‘ let the enemies of Mahomet be dis- 
mayed ! but inform me, O ye sages ! under the semblance of which of your 
brethren did that foul enchanter gain admittance here V—‘ May the lord of 
my heart,' answered Balihu, the hermit of the faithful from Queda, ‘ triumph 
over all his foes ! As I travelled on the mountains from Queda, and saw nei- 
ther the footsteps of beasts, nor the flight of birds, behold, I chanced to pass 
through a cavern, in whose hollow sides I found this accursed sage, to whom 
I unfolded the invitation of the Sultan of India, and we, joining, journeyed 
towards the Divan ; but ere we entered, he said unto me, ‘ rut thy hand forth, 
and pull me towards thee unto the Divan, calling on the name of Mahomet, 
for the evil spirits are on me, and vex me.' " 

I have understood that many parts of these fine tales, and in particular that 
of the Sultan Misnar, were taken from genuine Oriental sources by the editor, 
Mr. James Ridley. 

But the most picturesque use of this popular belief occurs in Coleridge's 
beautiful and tantalizing fragment of Christabel. Has not our own imagina- 
tive poet cause to fear that future ages will desire to summon him from his 
place of rest; as Milton longed 

To call him up, w’ho left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold ?" 

The verses I refer to are when Christabel conducts into her father's castle a 
mysterious and malevolent being, under the guise of a distressed femade 
stranger. 

“ They cross'd the moat, and Christabel 
Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she open'd straight, 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was iron’d within and without. 

Where an army in battle array had march’d out. 

The lady sank, belike thro' pain. 

And Christabel with might and main 
Lifted her up, a weary weight. 

Over the threshold of the gate : 

Then the lady rose again. 

And moved as she were not in pain. 

“ So free from danger, free from fear. 

They cross’d the court : — right glad they were, 

And Christabel devoutly cried 
To the lady by her side ; 

‘ Praise we the Virgin, all divine. 

Who hath rescued thee from this distress.* 

* Alas, alas !’ said Geraldine, 

' I cannot speak from weariness.' 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

I’hey cross’d the court : — right glad they were.” 


260 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT. 


20. Page 196. George, fifth Lord Seylon, was immovably faithful to 
Queen Mary during all the mutabilities of her fortune. He was grand master 
of the household, in which capacity he had a picture painted of himself with 
his official baton, emd the following motto • 

Jn adversitate, patiens , 

In prosperitate, benevolus. 

Hazard, ijet forward. 

On various parts of his castle he inscribed, as expressing his religious and 
political creed, the legend, 

Un DiF.U, UN FOV, UN RoY, UN LoY. 

He declined to be promoted to an earldom, which Queen Mary offered him 
at the same time when she advanced her natural brother to be Earl of Mar, 
and afterwards of Murray. 

On his refusing this honour, IMary wrote, or caused to be written, the fol- 
lowing lines in Latin and French : — 

Sunt comites, ducesque alii ; sunt denique reges 5 
Sethoui dominum sit satis esse mihi. 

II y a des comptes, des roys, des dues ; ainsi 
C’est assez pour moy d’estre Seigneur de Seton. 

Which may be thus rendered ;~ 

Earl, duke, or king, be thou that list to be 
Seton, thy lordship is enough for me. 

This distich reminds us of the pride which aped humility,'' in the motto 
of the house of Couci ; 

Je suis ni roy, ni prince aussi j 
Je suis le Seigneur de Coucy. 

After the battle of Langside, Lord Seton was obliged to retire abroad for 
safety, and was an exile for two years, during which he was reduced to the 
necessity of driving a wagon in Flanders for his subsistence. He rose to 
favour in James VI.'s reign, and resuming his paternal property, had himself 
painted in his wagoner's dress, and in the act of driving a wain with four 
norses, on the north end of a stately gallery at Seton CasUe. He appears to 
have been fond of the arts ; for there exists a beautiful family-piece of him in 
the centre of his family. Mr. Pinkerton, in his Scottish Iconographia, publish- 
ed an engraving of this curious portrait. The original is the property of Lord 
Somerville, nearly connected with the Seton family, and is at present at his 
lordship's fishing villa of the Pavilion, near Melrose. 

21. Page 202. Both these Border chieftains were great friends of Queen 
Mary. 

22. Page 203. Maiden of Morton — a species of guillotine which the Re- 

^ (•ent Morton brought down from Halifax, certainly at a period considerably 
ater than intimated in the tale. He was himself the first that suffered by the 
engine. 


END OF VOLUME I. 


WAVERLEY NOVELS. 


V 


Volume 20. 


THE ABBOT; 

BEING THE SEQUEL TO 


THE MONASTERY, 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 

II. 


PARKER’S EDITION, 

REVISED AND CORRECTED, WITH A GENERAL PREFACE, At 
INTRODUCTION TO EACH NOVEL, AND NOTES, 
HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE, BY 


THE AUTHOR. 


PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL H. PARKER, BOSTON, FOR 
DE SILVER, THOMAS, AND CO., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


1836 


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THE ABBOT. 


CHAPTER I. 


Could valour ought avail or people's love, 

France had not wept Navarre's brave Henry slain ; 

If wit or beauty could compassion move, 

The Rose of Scotland had not wept in vain. 

Elegy in a Royal Mausolami . — Lewis. 


At the gate of the court-yard of Lochleven appeared 
the stately form of the Lady of Lochleven, a female 
whose early charms had captivated James V., by whom 
she became mother of the celebrated Regent Murray. 
As she was of noble birth (being a daughter of the house 
of Mar) and of great beauty, her intimacy with James 
did not prevent her being afterwards sought in honoura- 
ble marriage by many gallants of the time, among whom 
she had preferred Sir William Douglas of Lochleven 
But well has it been said, 

Our pleasant vices 

Are made the whips to scourge us — 

The station which the Lady of Lochleven now held as 
tlie wife of a man of high rank and interest, and the 
mother of a lawful family, did not prevent her nourishing 
a painful sense of degradation, even while she was proud 
of the talents, the power, and the station of her son, now 
prime ruler of the state, but still a pledge of her illicit 
intercourse. Had James done to her, she said in her 
secret heart, the justice he owed her, she had seen in 
her son, as a source of unmixed delight and of unchast- 


4 


THE AlilJOT. 


ened pride, the lawful monarch of Scotland, and one of 
the ablest who ever swayed the sceptre. The House of 
Mar, not inferior in antiquity or grandeur to that of 
Drummond, would then have also boasted a Queen 
among its daughters, and escaped the stain attached to 
female frailty, even when it has a royal lover for its apol- 
ogy. While such feelings preyed on a bosom naturally 
proud and severe, they had a corresponding effect on her 
countenance, where, with the remains of great beauty, 
were mingled traits indicative of inward discontent and " 
peevish melancholy. It perhaps contributed to increase 
this habitual temperament that the Lady Lochleven had 
adopted uncommonly rigid and severe views of religion, 
imitating in her ideas of reformed faith the very worst 
errors of the Catholics, in limiting the benefit of the 
gospel to those who profess their own speculative tenets. 

In every respect, the unfortunate Queen Mary, now 
the compulsory guest, or rather prisoner of this sullen 
lady, was obnoxious to her hostess. Lady Lochleven 
disliked her as the daughter of Mary of Guise, the legal 
possessor of those rights over James’s heart and hand, of 
which she conceived herself to have been injuriously 
deprived ; and yet more so as the professor of a religion 
which she detested worse than Paganism. 

Such was the dame, who, with stately mien, and sharp 
yet handsome features, shrouded by her black velvet 
coif, interrogated the domestic who steered her barge 
to the shore, what had become of Lindesay and Sir 
Robert Melville. The man related what had passed^ 
and she smiled scornfully as she replied, “ Fools must 
be flattered, not foughten with. — Row back — make thy 
excuse as thou canst — say Lord Ruthven hath already 
reached this castle, and that he is impatient for Lord 
Lindesay’s presence. Away with thee, Randal — yet 
stay — what galopin is that thou hast brought hither f” 

“ So please you, my lady, he is the page who is to 
wait upon ” 

‘‘ Ay, the new male minion,” said the Lady Loch- 
leven ; “ the female attendant arrived yesterday. J 


Tin: AiinoT. 


5 


shall have a well-ordered house with this lady and her 
retinue ; but I trust they will soon find some others to 
undertake such a charge. Begone, Randal — and you 
(to Roland Gra3me) follow me to the garden.” 

She led the way with a slow and stately step to the 
small garden, which, inclosed by a stone wall ornamented 
with statues, and an artificial fountain in the centre, ex- 
tended its dull parterres on the side of the court-yard, 
W'ith which it coinmunicated by a low and arched portal. 
Within the narrow circuit of its formal and limited walks, 
Mary Stuart was now learning to perform the weary part 
of a prisoner, which, with little interval, she was doom- 
ed to sustain during the remainder of her life. She was 
followed in her slow' and melancholy exercise by two 
female attendants ; but in the first glance which Roland 
Graeme bestowed upon one so illustrious by birth, so dis- 
tinguished by her beauty, accomplishments, and misfor- 
tunes, he was sensible of the presence of no other than 
the unhappy Queen of Scotland. 

Her face, her form, have been so deeply impressed 
upon the imagination, that, even at the distance of near- 
ly three centuries, it is unnecessary to remind the most 
ignorant and uninformed reader of the striking traits 
which characterize that remarkable countenance, which 
seems at once to combine our ideas of the majestic, the 
pleasing, and the brilliant, leaving us to doubt whether 
they express most happily the queen, the beauty, or the 
accomplished woman. Who is there, that, at the very 
mention of Mary.Stuart’s'name, has not her countenance 
before him, familiar as that of the mistress of his youth, 
or the favourite daughter of his advanced age ? Even 
those who feel themselves compelled to believe all, or 
niuch of what her enemies laid to her charge, cannot 
think without a sigh upon a countenance expressive of 
anything rather than the foul crimes with which she was 
charged when living, and wdiich still continue to shade, if 
not to blacken her memory. That brow, so truly open 
and regal — those eyebrows, so regularly graceful, which 
1* von, II. 


6 


TliE AUr.OT. 


yet were saved from the charge of regular Insipidity 
the beautiful effect of tlie hazel eyes which they over- 
arched, and which seemed to utter a thousand histories 
— the nose, with all its Grecian precision of outline — the 
mouth, so well proportioned, so sweetly formed, as if 
designed to speak nothing but what was delightful to hear 
— the dimpled chin — the stalely swanlike neck, form a 
countenance, the like of which we know not to have ex- 
isted in any other character moving in that high class of 
life, where the actresses as well as the actors command 
general and undivided attention. It is in vain to say that 
the portraits which exist of this remarkable woman are 
not like each other ; for, amidst their discrepancy, each 
possesses general features which the eye at once ac- 
knowledges as peculiar to the vision which our imagina- 
tion has raised while we read her history for the first 
time, and which has been impressed upon it by the nu- 
merous prints and pictures which we have seen. Indeed 
we cannot look on the worst of them, however deficient 
in point of execution, without saying that it is meant for 
Queen Mary ; and no small instance it is of the power 
of beauty, that her cliarms should have remained the 
subject not merely of admiration, but of warm and chiv- 
alrous interest, after the lapse of such a length of time. 
We know that by far the most acute of those who, in 
latter days, have adopted the unfavourable view of Mary’s 
character, longed, like the executioner before his dread- 
ful task was performed, to kiss the fair hand of her on 
whom he was about to perform so horrible a duty. 

Dressed, then, in a deep mourning robe, and with all 
those ^charms of face, shape, and manner, with which 
faithful tradition has made each reader familiar, Mary 
Stuart advanced to meet the Lady of Lochleven, who, 
on her part, endeavoured to conceal dislike and appre- 
hension under the appearance of respectful indifference. 
The truth was, that she bad experience'd repeatedly the 
Queen’s superiority in that species of disguised yet cut- 
ting sarcasm, with which women can successfully avenge 
themselves, for real and substantial injuries. It may be 


TIIR AiJilOT. 


V 


well doubted, whether this talent was not as fatal to its 
possessor as the many others enjoyed by that highlj gift- 
ed, but most unhappy female ; for, while it often alFord- 
ed her a momentary triumph over her keepers, it failed 
not to exasperate their resentment ; and the satire and 
sarcasm in which she had indulged, were frequently re- 
taliated by the deep and bitter hardships which they had 
the power of inflicting. It is well known that her death 
was at length hastened by a letter which she wrote to 
Queen Elizabeth, in which she treated her jealous rival, 
and the Countess of Shrewsbury, with the keenest irony 
and ridicule. 

As the ladies met together, the Queen said, bending 
her head at the same time in return to the obeisance of 
the Lady Lochleven, “ VVe are this day fortunate — we 
enjoy the company of our amiable hostess at an unusual 
hour, and during a period which we have hitherto been 
permitted to give to our private exercise. But our good 
hostess knows well she has at all times access to our 
presence, and need not observe the useless ceremony of 
requiring our permission.” 

“ I am sorry my presence is deemed an intrusion by 
your Grace,” said the Lady of Lochleven. “ I came 
but to announce the arrival of an addition to your 
train,” motioning with her hand towards Roland Graeme ; 
“ a circumstance to which ladies are sedom indif- 
ferent.” 

“ O ! I crave your ladyship’s pardon ; and am bent 
to the earth with obligations for the kindness of my no- 
bles, — or my sovereigns shall 1 call them ? — who have 
permitted me such a respectable addition to my personal 
retinue.” 

“ They have indeed studied, madam,” said the Lady 
of Lochleven, ‘‘ to show their kindness toward your 
Grace — something at the risk perhaps of sound policy, 
and 1 trust their doings will not be misconstrued.” 

“ Impossible !” said the Queen ; “ the bounty which 
permits the daughter of so many kings, and who yet is 
Queen of the realm, the attendance of two waiting- 


8 


THE ABCOT. 


women and a boy, is a grace which Mary Stuart can 
never sufficiently acknowledge. Wliy ! my train will be 
equal to that of any country-dame in this your kingdom 
of Fife, saving but the lack of a gentleman-usher, and 
a pair or two of blue-coated serving-men. But I must 
not forget, in my selfish joy, the additional trouble 
and charges to which this magnificent augmentation of 
our train will put our kind hostess, and the whole house 
of Lochleven. It is this prudent anxiety, I am aware, 
which clouds your brows, my w^orthy’ lady. But be 
of good cheer ; the crown of Scotland has many 
a fair manor, and your affectionate son, and my no less 
affectionate brother, will endow the good knight your 
husband with the best of them, ere Mary should be dis- 
missed from this hospitable castle from your ladyship’s 
lack of means to support the charges.” 

“The Douglasses of Lochleven, madam,” answered 
the lady, “ have known for ages how to discharge their 
duty to the State, without looking for reward, even when 
the task was both irksome and dangerous.” 

“ Nay ! but, my dear Lochleven,” said the Queen, 
“ you are over scrupulous — I pray you accept of a good- 
ly manor ; what should support the Queen of Scotland 
in this her princely court, saving her own crown-lands — 
and who should minister to the wants of a mother, save 
an affectionate son like the Earl of Murray, who possess- 
es so wonderfully both the power and inclination ? — Or 
said you it was the danger of the task which clouded 
your smooth and hospitable brow ? — No doubt, a page 
is a formidable addition to my body-guard of females ; 
and I bethink me it must have been for that reason that 
my Lord of Lindesay refused even now to venture with- 
in the reach of a force so formidable, without being 
attended by a competent retinue.” 

The Lady Lochleven started, and looked something 
surprised ; and Mary, suddenly changing her manner 
from the smooth ironical affectation of mildness to an 
accent of austere command, and drawing up at the same 
lime her fine person, said, with the full majesty of her 
rank; “ Yes ! Lady of Lochleven ; 1 know that Ruth- 


THE ABBOT. 


9 


ven is already in the castle, and that Lindesay waits on 
the bank the return of your barge to bring him hither 
along with Sir Robert Melville. For what purpose do 
these nobles come — and why am I not in ordinary de- 
cency apprized of their arrival ?” 

“ Their purpose, madam,” replied the Lady of 
Lochleven, “ they must themselves explain — but a for- 
mal annunciation were needless, where your Grace hath 
attendants who can play the espial so well.” 

“ Alas! poor Fleming,” said the Queen, turning to the 
elder of the female attendants, “ thou wilt be tried, con- 
demned, and gibbetted, for a spy in the garrison, because 
thou didst chance to cross the great hall while my good 
Lady of Lochleven was parleying at the full pitch of her 
voice with her pilot Randal. Put black wool in thy ears, 
girl, as you value the wearing of them longer. Remem- 
ber, in the Castle of Lochleven, ears and tongues are 
matters not of use, but for show merely. Our good 
hostess can hear, as well as speak, for us all. VVe ex- 
cuse your further attendance, my lady hostess,” she said, 
once more addressing the object of her resentment, 
“ and retire to prepare for an interview with our rebel 
lords. We will use the antechamber of our sleeping 
apartment as our hall of audience. — You, young man,” 
she proceeded, addressing Roland Graeme, and at once 
softening the ironical sharpness of her manner into good- 
humoured raillery, “ you, who are all our male attend- 
ance, from our Lord High Chamberlain down to our 
least galopin, follow us to prepare our court.” 

She turned and walked slowly towards the castle. 
The Lady of Lochleven folded her arms and smiled in 
bitter resentment, as she watched her retiring steps. 

“ Thy whole male attendance !” she muttered, re- 
peating the Queen’s last words, “ and well for thee had 
it been had thy train never been larger ;” then turning 
to Roland, in whose way she had stood while making this 
pause, she made room for him to pass, saying at the 
same time, Art thou already eavesdropping f Follow 


10 


THE ABBOT. 


lliy mistress, minion, and, if thou wilt, tell her what I 
have now said.” 

Roland Graeme hastened after his royal mistress and 
her attendants, who had just entered a postern-gate com- 
municating betwixt the castle and the small garden. 
They ascended a winding-stair as high as the second 
story, which was in a great measure occupied by a suite 
of three rooms, opening into each other, and assigned as 
the dwelling of the captive Princess. ’ The outermost 
was a small hall or anteroom, within which opened a 
large parlour, and from that again the Queen’s bed-room. 
Another small apartment, which opened into the same 
parlour, contained the beds of the gentlewomen in waiting. 

Roland Graeme stopped, as became his station, in the 
outermost of these apartments, there to await such orders 
as might be communicated to him. From the grated 
window of the room he saw Lindesay, Melville, and 
their followers, disembark ; and observed that they were 
met at the castle gate by a third noble, to whom Linde- 
say exclaimed, in his loud harsh voice, — “ My Lord of 
Ruthven, you have the start of us !” 

At this instant the page’s attention was called to a 
burst of hysterical sobs from the inner apartment, and 
to the hurried ejaculations of the terrified females, which 
led him almost instantly to hasten to their assistance. 
When he entered, he saw that the Queen had thrown 
herself into the large chair which stood nearest the door, 
and was sobbing for breath in a strong fit of hysterical 
affection. The elder female supported her in her arms, 
while the younger bathed her face with water and with 
tears alternately. 

“ Hasten, young man !” said the elder lady, in alarm, 
“ fly — call in assistance — she is swooning !” 

But the Queen ejaculated in a faint and broken voice, 
“ Stir not, I charge you ! — call no one to witness — I am 
better — I shall recover instantly.” And, indeed, with an 
effort which seemed like that of one struggling for life, 
she sat up in her chair, and endeavoured to resume her 
composure, while her features yet trembled with the vio- 


THE ABBOT. 


11 


lent emotion of body and mind which she had under- 
gone. “ I am ashamed of my weakness, girls,” she 
said, taking the hands of her attendants ; “ but it is over 
— and I am Mary Stuart once more. The savage tone 
of that man’s voice — rny knowledge of his insolence — 
the name which he named — the purpose for which they 
come, may excuse a moment’s weakness — and it shall 
be a moment’s only.” She snatched from her head the 
curch or cap, which had been disordered during her 
hysterical agony — shook down the thick clustered tresses 
of dark brown which had been before veiled under it — 
and, drawing her slender fingers across the labyrinth 
which they formed, she arose from the chair, and stood 
like the inspired image of a Grecian prophetess, in a 
mood W’hich partook at once of sorrow and pride, of 
smiles and of tears. “ We are ill appointed,” she said, 
“ to meet our rebel subjects ; but, as far as we may, we 
will strive to present ourselves as becomes their Queen. 
Follow me, my maidens,” she said ; “ what says thy 
favourite song, my Fleming ? 

* My maids, come to my dressing-bower, 

And deck my nut-brown liair ; 

Where’er ye laid a plait before, 

Look ye lay ten times mair.’ 

Alas !” she added, when she had repeated with a 
smile these lines of an old ballad, “ violence has already 
robbed me of the ordinary decorations of my rank ; and 
the few that nature gave me have been destroyed by 
sorrow and by fear.” Yet while she spoke thus, 
she again let her slender fingers stray through the 
wilderness of the beautiful tresses which veiled her 
kingly neck and swelling bosom, as if, in her agony of 
mind, she had not altogether lost the consciousness of her 
unrivalled charms. Roland Grasme, on whose youth, 
inexperience, and ardent sense of what was dignified and 
lovely, the demeanour of so fair and high-born a lady 
wrought like the charm of a magician, stood rooted to 
the spot with surprise and interest, longing to hazard his 


12 


THE ABBOT. 


life in a quarrel so fair as that which Mary Stuart’s musi 
needs be. She had been bred in France — she was pos- 
sessed of the most distinguished beauty — she had reign- 
ed a Queen, and a Scottish Queen, to whom knowledge 
of character was as essential as the use of vital air. In 
all these capacities, Mary was, of all women on the earth, 
most alert at perceiving and using the advantages wdiich 
her charms gave her over almost all who came within the 
sphere of their influence. She cast on Roland a glance 
which might have melted a heart of stone. “ My poor 
boy,” she said, with a feeling partly real, partly politic, 
“ thou art a stranger to us — sent to this doleful captivity 
from the society of some tender mother, or sister, or 
maiden, with whom you had freedom to tread a gay 
measure round the May- pole. I grieve for you ; — but 
you are the only male in my limited household — wilt 
thou obey my orders 

“ To the death, madam,” said Graeme, in a deter- 
mined tone. 

“ Then keep the door of mine apartment,” said the 
Queen ; “ keep it till they ofler actual violence, or till 
we shall be fitly arrayed to receive these intrusive vis- 
iters.” 

“ I will defend it till they pass over my body,” said 
Roland Graeme ; any hesitation which he had felt con- 
cerning the line of conduct he ought to pursue being 
completely swept away by the impulse of the moment. 

“ Not so, my good youth,” answered Mary ; “ not so, 
1 command thee. If 1 have one faithful subject beside 
me, much need, God wot, 1 have to care for his safety. 
Resist them but till they are put to the shame of using 
actual violence, and then give way, 1 charge you. Re- 
member my commands.” And, with a smile expressive 
at once of favour and of authority, she turned from him, 
and, followed by her attendants, entered the bed-room. 

The youngest paused for half a second ere she fol- 
lowed her companion, and made a signal to Roland 
Graeme with her hand. He had been already long aware 
that this was Catherine Seyton — a circumstance which 


THE ABBOT. 


13 


could not much surprise a youth of quick intellects, who 
recollected the sort of mysterious discourse which had 
passed betwixt the two matrons at the deserted Nunne- 
ry, and on which his meeting with Catherine in this place 
seemed to cast so much light. Yet such was the en- 
grossing effect of Mary’s presence, that it surmounted 
for the moment even the feelings of a youthful lover ; 
and it was not until Catherine Seyton had disappeared, 
that Roland began to consider in what relation they were 
vO stand to each other. “ She held up her hand to me in a 
commanding manner,” he thought ; “ perhaps she wanted 
to confirm my purpose for the execution of the Queen’s 
commands ; for 1 think she could scarce purpose to scare 
me with the sort of discipline which she administered to the 
groom in the frieze-jacket, and to poor Adam Woodcock. 
15ul we will see to that anon ; meantime, let us do justice to 
the trust reposed in us by this unhappy Queen. I think my 
Lord of Miuray will himself own that it is the duty of a 
(aithfiil page to defend his lady against intrusion on her 
privacy.” 

Accordingly, he stepped to the little vestibule, made 
fast with lock and bar the door which opened from 
thence to the large stair-case, and then sat himself down 
to attend the result. He had not long to wait — a rude 
and strong hand first essayed to lift the latch, then push- 
ed and shook the door with violence, and when it resist- 
ed his attempt to open it, exclaimed, “ Undo the door 
there, you within !” 

“ Why, and at whose command,” said the page, 
“ am I to undo the door of the apartments of the Queen 
of Scotland 

Another vain attempt, which made hinge and bolts 
jingle, showed that the impatient applicant without would 
willingly have entered altogether regardless of his chal- 
lenge ; but at length an answer was returned. 

“ Undo the door, on your peril — the Lord Lindesay 
comes to speak with the Lady Mary of Scotland.” 

“ The Lord Lindesay, as a Scottish noble,” answered 
the page, “ must await his Sovereign’s leisure.” 

2 VOL. II. 


14 


THE ABBOT. 


An earnest altercation ensued amongst those without, 
in which Roland distinguished the remarkably harsh 
voice of Lindesay in reply to Sir Robert Melville, who 
appeared to have been using some soothing language — 
“ No ! no ! no ! I tell thee, no ! 1 will place a petard 
against the door rather than be balked by a profligate 
woman, and bearded by an insolent fool-boy.” 

“ Yet, at least,” said Melville, “ let me try fair means 
in the first instance. Violence to a lady would stain your 
scutcheon for ever. Or await till my Lord Ruthven 
comes.” 

“ I will await no longer,” said Lindesay ; “ it is high 
time the business were done, and we on our return to 
the Council. But thou mayest try thy fair play, as thou 
callest it, while 1 cause my train to prepare the petard. 
1 came hither provided with as good gunpowder as blew 
up the Kirk of Field.” 

“ For God’s sake be patient,” said Melville ; and, 
approaching the door, he said, as speaking to those with- 
in, “ Let the Queen know that 1, her faithful servant, 
Robert Melville, do entreat her, for her own sake, and 
to prevent worse consequences, that she will undo the 
door, and admit Lord Lindesay, who brings a mission 
from the Council of State.” 

“ I will do your errand to the Queen,” said the page, 
“ and report to you her answer.” 

He went to the door of the bed-chamber, and tapping 
against it gently, it was opened by the elder lady, to 
whom he communicated his errand, and returned with 
directions from the Queen to admit Sir Robert Melville 
and Lord Lindesay. Roland Graeme returned to the 
vestibule, and opened the door accordingly, into which 
the Lord Lindesay strode, with the air of a soldier who 
has fought his way into a conquered fortress ; while 
Melville, deeply dejected, follow^ed him more slowly. 

“ I draw you to witness, and to record,” said the page 
to this last, “ that, save for the especial commands of 
the Queen, I would have made good the entrance, with 
my best strength, and my best blood, against all Scotland.” 


THE ABBOT. 


15 


“ Be silent, young man,” said Melville, in a tone of 
grave rebuke ; “ add not brands to fire — this is no time 
to make a flourisb of tby boyish chivalry.” 

“ She has not appeared even yet,” said Lindesay, 
who had now reached the midst of the parlour or audi- 
ence-room ; “ how call you this trifling 

“ Patience, my Lord,” replied Sir Robert, “ time 
presses not — and Lord Ruthven hath not as yet de- 
scended.” 

At this moment the door of the inner apartment open- 
ed, and Queen Mary presented herself, advancing with 
an air of peculiar grace and majesty, and seeming totally 
unruffled, either by the visit, or by the rude manner in 
which it had been enforced. Her dress was a robe of 
black velvet ; a small ruff, open in front, gave a full view 
of her beautifully formed chin and neck, but veiled the 
bosom. On her head she wore a small cap of lace, and 
a transparent white veil hung from her shoulders over 
the long black robe, in large loose folds, so that it could 
be drawn at pleasure over the face and person. She 
wore a cross of gold around her neck, and had her rosary 
of gold and ebony hanging from her girdle. She was 
closely followed by her two ladies, who remained, stand- 
ing behind her during the conference. Even Lord 
Lindesay, though the rudest noble of that rude age, was 
surprised into something like respect by the unconcerned 
and majestic mien of her, whom he had expected to find 
frantic with impotent passion, or dissolved in useless and 
vain sorrow, or overwlielmed with the fears likely in such 
a situation to assail fallen royalty. 

“ We fear we have detained you, my Lord of Linde- 
say,” said the Queen, while she curtsied with dignity in 
answer to his reluctant obeisance ; “ but a female does 
not willingly receive her visiters without some minutes 
spent at the toileite. Men, my Lord, are less dependent 
on such ceremonies.” 

Lord Lindesay, casting his eye down on his own 
travel-stained and disordered dress, muttered something 
of a hasty journey, and the Queen paid her greeting to 


16 


THE ABBOT. 


Sir Robert Melville with courtesy, and even, as it seem- 
ed, with kindness. There was then a dead pause, during 
which Lindesay looked towards the door, as if expecting 
with impatience the colleague of their embassy. The 
Q,ueen alone was entirely unembarrassed, and, as if to 
break the silence, she addressed Lord Lindesay, with a 
glance at the large and cumbrous sword which he wore, 
as already mentioned, hanging from his neck. 

“ You have there a trusty and a weighty travelling 
companion, my Lord. I trust you expected to meet with 
no enemy here, against whom such a formidable weapon 
could be necessary f It is, methinks, somewhat a singu- 
lar ornament for a court, though I am, as I well need to 
be, too much of a Stuart to fear a sword.” 

“ It is not the first time, madam,” replied Lindesay, 
bringing round the weapon so as to rest its point on the 
ground, and leaning one hand on the huge cross-handle, 
“ it is not the first time that this weapon has intruded 
itself into the presence of the House of Stuart.” 

“ Possibly, my Lord,” replied the Queen, “ it may 
have done service to my ancestors. — Your ancestors were 
men of loyalty.” 

“ Ay, madam,” replied he, “ service it hath done ; but 
such as kings love neither to acknowledge nor to reward. 
It was the service which the knife renders to the tree 
when trimming it to the quick, and depriving it of the 
superfluous growth of rank and unfruitful suckers, which 
rob it of nourishment.” 

“ You talk riddles, my Lord,” said Mary ; “ I will 
hope the explanation carries nothing insulting with it.” 

“ You shall judge, madam,” answered Lindesay. 
“ With this good sword was Archibald Douglas, Earl ot 
Angus, girded on the memorable day when he acquired 
the name of Bell-the-Cat, for dragging from the presence 
of your great-grandfather, the third James of the race, 
a crew of minions, flatterers, and favourites, whom he 
hanged over the bridge of Lauder, as a warning to such 
reptiles how they approach a Scottish throne. With this 
same weapon, the same inflexible champion of Scottish 


THE ABBOT. 


17 


honoui and nobility slew at one blow Spens of Kilspindie, 
a courtier of your grandfather James the Fourth, who 
had dared to speak lightly of him in the royal presence. 
They fought near the brook of Fala ; and Bell-the-Cat, 
with this blade, sheared through the thigh of his oppo- 
nent, and lopped the limb as easily as a shepherd’s boy 
slices a twig from a sapling.” 

“ My Lord,” replied the Queen, reddening, “ my 
nerves are too good to be alarmed even by this terrible 
history — May I ask how a blade so illustrious passed from 
the House of Douglas to that of Lindesay f — Methinks 
it should have been preserved as a consecrated relic, by 
a family who have held all that they could do against 
their king to be done in favour of their country.” 

“ Nay, madam,” said Melville, anxiously interfering, 
“ ask not that question of Lord Lindesay — And you, my 
Lord, for shame — for decency — forbear to reply to it.” 

“ It is time that this lady should hear the truth,” re- 
plied Lindesay. 

“ And be assured,” said the Queen, “ that she wdll be 
moved to anger by none that you can tell her, my Lord. 
There are cases in which just scorn has always the mas- 
tery over just anger.” 

“ Then know,” said Lindesay, “ that upon the field 
of Carberry-Hill, when that false and infamous traitor 
and murderer, James, sometime Earl of Bothwell, and 
nick-named Duke of Orkney, offered to do personal bat- 
tle with any of the associated nobles who came to drag 
him to justice, I accepted his challenge, and was by the 
noble Earl of Morton gifted with his good sword, that I 
might therewith fight it out — Ah ! so help me Heaven, 
had his presumption been one grain more, or his coward- 
ice one grain less, I should have done such work with 
this good steel on his traitorous corpse, that the hounds 
and carrion-crows should have found their morsels dain- 
tily carved to their use !” 

The Queen’s courage well nigh gave way at the men- 
tion of Bothwell’s name— ra name connected with such a 
train of gujlt, shame, and disaster. But the prolonged 
2 * VOL. II. 


18 


THE ABBOT. 


boast of Tjinclesay gave her time to rally herself, and to 
answer with an appearance of cold contempt — “ It is 
easy to slay an enemy who enters not the lists. But had 
Mary Stuart inherited her father’s sword as well as his 
sceptre, the boldest of her rebels should not upon that 
day have complained that they had no one to cope withal. 
Your Lordship will forgive me if I abridge this confer- 
ence. A brief description of a bloody fight is long 
enough to satisfy a lady’s curiosity ; and unless my Lord 
of Lindesay has something more important to tell us than 
of the deeds which old Bell-the-Cat achieved, and how 
he would himself have emulated them, had time and tide 
permitted, we will retire to our private apartment, and 
you, Fleming, shall finish reading to us yonder little trea- 
tise Des Rodomontades Espagnolles.” 

“ Tarry, madam,” said Lindesay, his complexion red- 
dening in his turn ; “ I know your quick wit too well of 
old to have sought an interview that you might sharpen 
its edge at the expense of my honour. Lord Ruthven 
and myself, with Sir Robert Melville, as a concurrent, 
come to your Grace on the part of the Secret Council, 
to tender to you what much concerns the safety of your 
own life and the welfare of the State.” 

“ The Secret Council ?” said the Queen ; “ by what 
powers can it subsist or act, while I, from whom it holds 
its character, am here detained under unjust restraint ? 
But it matters not — what concerns the welfare of Scot- 
land shall be acceptable to Mary Stuart, come from what- 
ever quarter it will — and for what concerns her own 
life, she has lived long enough to be weary of it, even at 
the age of tw^enty-five. Where is your colleague, my 
Lord — why tarries he ?” 

“ He comes, madam,” said xMelville, and Lord Ruth- 
ven entered at the instant, holding in his hand a packet. 
As the Queen returned his salutation she became deadly 
pale, but instantly recovered herself by dint of strong 
and sudden resolution, just as the noble, whose appear- 
ance seemed to excite such emotions in her bosom, en- 
tered the apartment in company with George Douglas, 


THE ABBOT. 


19 


the youngest son of the Knight of Lochleven, who, dur- 
ing the absence of his father and brethren, acted as sene- 
schal of the castle, under the direction of the elder La- 
dy Lochleven, his father’s mother. 


CHAPTER II. 

I give this heavy weight from off my head, 

And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand ; 

With mine own tears I wash away my balm, 

With mine own hand I give away my crown. 

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, 

With mine own breath release all duteous oaths. 

Richard IL 


Lord Ruthven had the look and bearing which became 
a soldier and a statesman, and the martial cast of his 
form and features procured him the popular epithet of 
Greysteil, by which he was distinguished by his intimates, 
after the hero of a metrical romance then generally 
known. His dress, which was a buff-coat embroidered, 
had a half-military character, but exhibited nothing of the 
sordid negligence which distinguished that of Lindesay 
But the son of an ill-fated sire, and the father of a yet 
more unfortunate family, bore in his look that cast of in- 
auspicious melancholy, by which the physiognomists of 
that time pretended to distinguish those who were pre- 
destined to a violent and unhappy death. 

The terror which the presence of this nobleman im- 
pressed on the Queen’s mind, arose from the active share 
he had borne in the slaughter of David Rizzio ; his fa- 
ther having presided at the perpetration of that abomina- 
ble crime, although so weak from long and wasting ill- 
ness, that he could not endure the weight of his armour, 
having arisen from a sick-bed to commit a murder in the 
presence of his Sovereign. On that occasion his son also 


20 


THE ABBOT. 


had attended, and ‘taken an active part. It was little to 
be wondered at that the Queen, considering her condi- 
tion when such a deed of horror was acted in her pres- 
ence, should retain an instinctive terror for the principal 
actors in the murder. She returned, liowever, with 
grace the salutation of Lord Ruthven, and extended her 
hand to George Douglas, who kneeled and kissed it with 
respect ; the first mark of a subject’s honiage which Ro- 
land Graeme had seen any of them render to the captive 
Sovereign. She returned his greeting in silence, and 
there was a brief pause, during which the steward of the 
castle, a man of a sad brow and a severe eye, placed, 
under George Douglas’s directions, a table and writing 
materials ; and the page, obedient to his mistress’s dumb 
signal, advanced a large chair to the side on which the 
Queen stood, the table thus forming a sort of bar which 
divided the Queen and her personal followers from her 
unwelcome visiters. The steward then withdrew after 
a low reverence. When he had closed the door behind 
him, the Queen broke silence — “ With your favour, my 
lords, I will sit — my walks are not indeed extensive 
enough at present to fatigue me greatly, yet I find repose 
something more necessary than usual.” 

She sat down accordingly, and shading her cheek with 
lier beautiful hand, looked keenly and impressively at 
each of the nobles in turn. Mary Fleming applied her 
kerchief to her eyes, and Catherine Seyton and Roland 
Gra3me exchanged a glance, which showed that both 
were too deeply engrossed with sentiments of interest 
and commiseration for their royal mistress, to think of 
anything which regarded themselves. 

“ 1 wait the purpose of your mission, my lords,” said 
the Queen, after she had been seated for about a minute 
w ithout a word being spoken, — “ 1 wait your message from 
those you call the Secret Council. — I trust it is a petition 
of ])ardon, and a desire that I will resume my rightful 
throne, without using with due severity my right of pun 
ishing those who have dis])ossessed me of it?” 


THE ABBOT. 


21 


** Madam,” replied Ruthven, “ it is painful for us to 
speak harsh truths to a Princess who has long ruled us 
But we come to offer, not to implore pardon. In a word, 
madam, we have to propose to you, on the part of the 
Secret Council, that you sign these deeds, which will 
contribute greatly to the pacification of the State, the 
advancement of God’s word, and the welfare of your own 
future life.” 

“ Am I expected to take these fair words on trust, my 
Lord? or may 1 hear the contents of these reconciling 
papers, ere 1 am asked to sign them 

“ Unquestionably, madam ; it is our purpose and wish, 
you should read what you are required to sign,” replied 
Ruthven. 

“ Required ?” replied the Queen witfi some emphasis ; 
“ but tlie phrase suits well the matter — Read, my Lord.’* 

The Lord Ruthven proceeded to read a formal instru- 
ment, running in the Queen’s name, and setting forth that 
she had been called at an early age to the administration 
of the crown and realm of Scotland, and had toiled dil- 
igently therein, until she was in body and spirit so weari- 
ed out and disgusted, that she was unable any longer to 
endure the travail and pain of State affairs ; and that 
since Godhadblessed her with afair and hopeful son, she 
was desirous to ensure to him, even while she yet lived, 
his succession to the crown, which was his by right of 
hereditary descent. Wherefore,” the instrument pro- 
ceeded, “ we, of the motherly affection we bear to our 
said son, have renounced and demitted, and by these our 
letters of free good-will, renounce and demit the Crown, 
government, and guiding of the realm of Scotland, in 
favour of our said son, that he may succeed to us as na- 
tive prince thereof, as much as if we had been removed 
by disease, and not by our own proper act. And that 
this demission of our royal authority may have the more 
full and solemn effect, and none pretend ignorance, we 
give, grant, and commit, full and free and plain power to 
our trusty cousins, Lord Lindesay of the Byres, and 
William Lord Rutliven, to appear in our name before as 


22 


THE ABBOT. 


many of the nobility, clergy, and burgesses, as may be 
assembled at Stirling, and there, in our name and behalf, 
publicly, and in their presence, to renounce the Crown, 
guidance, and government of this our kingdom of Scot- 
land.’’ 

The Queen here broke in with an air of extreme sur- 
prise. “ How is this, niy Lords she said ; “ Are my 
ears turned rebels, that they deceive me with sounds so 
extraordinary — And yet it is no wonder that, having 
conversed so long with rebellion, they should now force 
its language upon my understanding. Say J am mistaken, 
my Lords — say, for the honour of yourselves and the 
Scottish nobility, that my right trusty cousins of Lindesay 
and Ruthven, two barons of warlike fame and ancient line, 
have not sought the prison-house of their kind mistress 
for such a purpose as these words seem to imply. Say, 
for the sake of honour and loyalty, that my ears have de- 
ceived me.” 

“ No, madam,” said Ruthven gravely, “ your ears do 
not deceive you — they deceived you when they were 
closed against the preachers of the evangele, and the 
honest advice of your faithful subjects ; and when they 
were ever open to flattery of pick-thanks and traitors, 
foreign cubiculars and domestic minions. The land may 
no longer brook the rule of one who cannot rule herself; 
wherefore, I pray you to comply with the last remaining 
wish of your subjects and counsellors, and spare yourself 
and us the further agitation of matter so painful.” 

“ And is this all my loving subjects require of me, my 
Lord said Mary in a tone of bitter irony. “ Do they 
really stint themselves to the easy boon that 1 should yield 
up the crown, which is mine by birthright, to an infant, 
which is scarcely more than a year old — fling down my 
sceptre, and take up a distaff? O no ! it is too little for 
them to ask — That other roll of parchment contains some- 
thing harder to be complied with, and which may more 
highly tax my readiness to comply with the petitions of 
my lieges.” 


THE ABBOT. 


23 


“ This parchment,” answered Ruthven, in the same 
tone of inflexible gravity, and nnfolding the instrument 
as he spoke, “ is one by which your Grace constitutes 
your nearest in blood, and the most honourable and trust- 
worthy of your subjects, James, Earl of Murray, Regent 
of the kingdom during the minority of the young King. 
He already holds the appointment from the Secret 
Council.” 

The Queen gave a sort of shriek, and clapping her 
hands together, exclaimed, “ Comes the arrow out of his 
quiver f — out of my brother’s bow ^ Alas ! I looked 
for his return from France as my sole, at least my read- 
iest chance of deliverance. And yet, when 1 heard that 
he had assumed the government, I guessed he would 
shame to wield it in my name.” 

“ 1 must pray your answer, madam,” said Lord Ruth- 
ven, “ to the demand of the Council.” 

“ The demand of the Council !” said the Queen ; 
“ say rather the demand of a set of robbers, impatient 
to divide the spoil they have seized. To such a demand, 
and sent by the mouth of a traitor, whose scalp, but for 
my womanish mercy, should long since have stood on the 
city gates, Mary of Scotland has no answer.” 

“ I trust, madam,” said Lord Ruthven, “ my being un- 
acceptable to your presence will not add to your obdura- 
cy of resolution. It may become you to remember that 
the death of the minion, Rizzio, cost the house of Ruth- 
ven its head and leader. My father, more worthy than 
a whole province of such vile sycophants, died in exile, 
and broken-hearted.” 

The Queen clasped her hands on her face, and resting 
her arms on the table, stooped down her head and wept 
so bitterly, that the tears were seen to find their way in 
streams between the white and slender fingers with which 
she endeavoured to conceal them. 

“ My Lords,” said Sir Robert Melville, “ this is too 
much rigour. Under your lordships’ favour, we came 
hither, not to revive old griefs, but to find the mode of 
avoiding new ones.” 


24 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Sir Robert Melville,” said Ruthven, “ we best know 
for what purpose we were delegated hither, and wherefore 
you were somewhat unnecessarily sent to attend us.” 

“ Nay, by my hand,” said Lord Lindesay, “ I know 
not why we were cumbered with the good knight, unless 
he comes in place of the lump of sugar which pothicars 
put into their wholesome but bitter medicaments, to please 
a froward child — a needless labour, methinks, where men 
have the means to make them swallow the physic other- 
wise.” 

“ Nay, my Lords,” said Melville, “ ye best know your 
own secret instructions. I conceive 1 shall best obey 
mine in striving to mediate between her grace and you.” 

“ Be silent. Sir Robert Melville,” said the Queen, 
arising, and her face still glowing with agitation as she 
spoke. My kerchief, Fleming — 1 shame that traitors 
should have power to move me thus. — Tell me, proud 
Lords,” she added, wdping away the tears as she spoke, 
“ by what earthly warrant can liege subjects pretend to 
challenge the rights of an anointed Sovereign — to throw 
off the allegiance they have vowed, and to take away 
the crowm from the head on which divine warrant had 
placed it 

“ Madam,” said Ruthven, “ I will deal plainly with 
you. Your reign, from the dismal field of Pinkie-cleuch, 
when you were a babe in the cradle, till now, that ye 
stand a grown dame before us, hath been such a tragedy 
of losses, disasters, civil dissensions, and foreign wars, 
that the like is not to be found in our chronicles. The 
French and English have,with one consent, made Scotland 
the battle-field on which to fight out their own ancient 
quarrel. For ourselves, every man’s hand hath been 
against his brother, nor hath a year passed over without 
rebellion and slaughter, exile of nobles, and oppressing 
of the commons. We may endure it no longer; and, 
therefore, as a prince, to whom God hath refused the gift 
of hearkening to wise counsel, and on whose dealings 
and projects no blessing bath ever descended, we pray 


THE ABBOT. 


25 


you to give way to other rule and governance of the land, 
that a remnant may yet he saved to this distracted realm.” 

“ My Lord,” said Mary, “ it seems to me that you 
fling on my unhappy and devoted head those evils, which, 
with far more justice, I may impute to your own turbu- 
lent, wild, and untameable dispositions — the frantic vio- 
lence with which you, the Magnates of Scotland, enter 
into feuds against each other, sticking at no cruelty to 
gratify your wrath, taking deep revenge for the slightest 
offences, and setting at defiance those wise laws which 
your ancestors made for stanching of such cruelty, re- 
belling against the lawful authority, and bearing your- 
selves as if there were no king in the land ; or rather 
as if each were king in his own premises. And now 
you throw the blame on me — on me, whose life has 
been embittered — whose sleep has been broken — whose 
happiness has been wrecked by your dissensions. Have 
I not myself been obliged to traverse wilds and moun- 
tains, at the head of a few faithful followers, to maintain 
peace and to put down oppression ? Have I not worn 
harness on my person, and carried pistols at my saddle ; 
fain to lay aside the softness of a woman, and the dig- 
nity of a Queen, that 1 might show an example to my 
followers ?” 

“ We grant, madam,” said Lindesay, “ that the af- 
frays occasioned by your misgovernment, may some- 
times have startled you in the midst of a masque or gal- 
liard , or it may be that such may have interrupted the 
idolatry of the mass, or the Jesuitical counsels of some 
French ambassador. But the longest and severest jour- 
ney which your Grace has taken in my memory, was from 
Hawick to Hermitage Castle ; and whether it was for the 
weal of the State, or for your own honour, rests with 
your Grace’s conscience.” 

The Queen turned to him with inexpressible sweetness 
of tone and manner, and that engaging look which heav- 
en had assigned her, as if to show that the choicest arts 
to win men’s affections may be given in vain. Linde- 
.3 VOL. II. 


26 


THE ABBOT. 


say,” she said, “ you spoke not to me in this stern tone, 
and with such scurril taunt, yon fair summer evening, 
when you and I shot at the butts against the Earl of Mar 
and Mary Livingstone, and won of them the evening’s 
collation, in the privy garden of Saint Andrews. The 
Master of Lindesay was then my friend, and vowed to be 
my soldier. How 1 have offended the Lord of Lindesay 
I know not, unless honours have changed manners.” 

Hard-hearted as he was, Lindesay seemed struck with 
this unexpected appeal, but almost instantly replied, 
“ Madam, it is well known that your Grace could in those 
days make fools of whomever approached you. — 1 pre- 
tend not to have been wiser than others. But gayer men 
and better courtiers soon jostled aside my rude homage, 
and I think your Grace cannot but remember times, when 
my awkward attempts to take the manners that pleased 
you, w^ere the sport of the court-popinjays, the Maries, 
and the French-women.” 

“ My Lord, I grieve if I have offended you through 
idle gaiety,” said the Queen ; “ and can but say it was 
most unwittingly done. You are fully revenged ; for 
through gaiety,” she said with a sigh, will I never of- 
fend any one more.” 

“ Our time is wasting, madam,” said Lord Ruthven ; 

I must pray your decision on this weighty matter which 
I have submitted to you.” 

“ What, my Lord!” said the Queen, “ upon the instant, 
and without a moment’s time to deliberate?— can the 
Council, as they term themselves, expect this of me 

“ Madam,” replied Ruthven, “ the Council hold the 
opinion, that since the fatal term which passed betwixt 
the night of King Henry’s murder and the day of Car- 
berry-hill, your Grace should have held you prepared for 
the measure now proposed, as the easiest escape from 
your numerous dangers and difficulties.” 

“ Great God !” exclaimed the Queen ; “and is it as 
a boon that you propose to me, what every Christian 
king ought to regard as a loss of honour equal to the loss 
of life ! — You take from me my crown, my power, my 


THE ABBOT. 


27 


subjects, my wealth, my state. What, in the name of 
every saint, can you offer, or do you offer, in requital of 
my compliance 

“ We give you pardon,” answered Ruthven, sternly — 
“we give you space and means to spend your remaining 
life in penitence an(fseclusion — we give you lime to make 
your peace with Heaven, and to receive the pure Gospel, 
which you have ever rejected and persecuted.” 

The Queen turned pale at the menace which this 
speech, as well as the rough and inflexible tones of tlie 
speaker, seemed distinctly to infer — “ And if 1 do not 
comply with your request so fiercely urged, my Lord, 
what then follows 

She said this in a voice in which female and natural 
fear was contending with the feelings of insulted dignity. 
There was a pause, as if no one cared to return to the 
question a distinct answer. At length Ruthven spoke : 
“ There is little need to tell to your Grace, who are well 
read both in the laws and in the chronicles of the realm, 
that murder and adultery are crimes for which ere now 
queens themselves have suffered death.” 

“ And where, my Lord, or how, found you an accusa- 
tion so horrible against her who stands before you ?” 
said Queen Mary. “ The foul and odious calumnies 
which have poisoned the general mind of Scotland, and 
have placed me a helpless prisoner in your hands, are 
surely no proof of guilt?” 

“We need look for no further proof,” replied the stern 
Lord Ruthven, “ than the shameless marriage betwixt the 
widow of the murdered and the leader of the band of mur- 
derers ! — They that joined hands in the fated month of 
May, had already united hearts and counsel in the deed 
which preceded that marriage hut a few brief weeks.” 

“ My lord, my lord !” said the Queen eagerly, “ re- 
member well there were more consents than mine lo 
that fatal union, that most unhappy act of a most un- 
happy life. The evil steps adopted by sovereigns, are 
often the suggestion of bad counsellors ; but these coun- 
sellors are worse than fiends who tempt and betray, if 


28 


THE ABBOT. 


they themselves are the first to call their unfortunate prin- 
cess to answer for the consequences of their own advice. 
Heard ye never of a bond by the nobles, my lords, re- 
commending that ill-fated union to the ill-fated Mary f 
Methinks, were it carefully examined^we should see that 
the names of Morton, and of Lindesay, and of Ruthven, 
may be found in that bond, vvbich pressed me to marry 
that unhappy man. — Ah ! stout and loyal Lord Herries, 
who never knew guile or dishonour, you bent your noble 
knee to me in vain, to warn me of my danger, and wert 
yet the first to draw thy good sword in my cause wljen [ 
suffered for neglecting thy counsel ! Faithful knight 
and true noble, what a difference betwixt tliee and those 
counsellors of evil, who now threaten my life for having 
fallen into the snares they spread for me !” 

“ Madam,” said Ruthven, “ we know that you are an 
orator ; and perhaps for that reason the Council has sent 
hither men, whose converse hath been more with the wars 
than with the language of the schools or the cabals of state. 
We but desire to know if, on assurance of life and honour, 
ye will demit tbe rule of this kingdom of Scotland 
“ And what warrant have 1,” said the Queen, “ that 
ye will keep treaty with me, if I should barter my kingly 
estate for seclusion, and leave to weep in secret 

“ Our honour and our word, madam,” answered 
Ruthven. 

They are too slight and unsolid pledges, my Lord,” 
said the Queen ; “ add at least a handful of thistle-down 
to give them weight in the balance.” 

“ Away, Ruthven,” said Lindesay ; “ she was ever 
deaf to counsel, save of slaves and sycophants ; let her 
remain by her refusal, and abide by it!” 

“ Stay, my Lord,” said Sir Robert Melville, “ or 
rather permit me to have but a few minutes private audi- 
ence with her Grace. If my presence with you could 
avail aught, it must be as a mediator — do > not, 1 conjure 
you, leave the castle or break off the conference, until I 
bring you word how her Grace shall finally stand dis 
posed,” 


THE ABBOT. 


29 


“ We will remain in the hall,” said Lindesay, “ for 
half an hour’s sjoace ; but in despising our words and our 
pledge of honour, she has touched the honour of my 
name — let her lool^herself to the course she has to pur- 
sue. If the half hour should pass away without her de- 
termining to comply with the demands of the nation, her 
career will be brief enough.” 

With little ceremony the two nobles left the apartment, 
traversed the vestibule, and descended the winding stairs, 
the clash of Lindesay’s huge sword being heard as it rang 
against each step in his descent. George Douglas fol- 
lowed them, after exchanging with Melville a gesture of 
surprise and sympathy. 

As soon as they were gone, the Queen, giving way 
to grief, fear, and agitation, threw herself into the 
seat, wrung her hands, and seemed to abandon herself to 
despair. Her female attendants, weeping themselves, 
endeavoured yet to pray her to be composed, and Sir 
Robert Melville, kneeling at her feet, made the same en- 
treaty. After giving way to a passionate burst of sorrow, 
she at length said to Melville, “ Kneel not to me, Melville 
— mock me not with the homage of the person, when the 
heart is far away — Why stay you behind with the de- 
posed, the condemned — her who has but few hours per- 
chance to live You have been favoured as well as the 
rest ; why do you continue the empty show of gratitude 
and thankfulness any longer than they ?” 

“ Madam,” said Sir Robert Melvlile^ “ so help me, 
heaven, at my need, rny heart is as true to you as when 
you were in your highest place.” 

“ True to me ! true to me !” repeated the Queen, 
with some scorn ; “ tush, Melville, what signifies the 
truth which walks hand in hand with my enemies’ false- 
hood ? — thy hand and thy sword have never been so well 
acquainted that I can trust thee in aught where manhood 
is required — O, Seyton, for thy bold father, who is both 
wise, true, and valiant !” 

Roland Grteme could withstand no longer his earnest 
3* voii. II. 


30 


THE ABBOT. 


desire to offer liis services to a prificess so distressed and 
so beautiful. “ If one sword,” lie said, “ madam, can 
do anything to back the wisdom of tliis grave counsellor, 
or to defend your rightful cause, here is my wea{3on, and 
here is my liand ready to draw and^ use it.” And rais- 
ing his sword with one hand, he laid the other upon the 
hilt. 

As he thus held up the weapon, Catherine Seyton ex- 
claimed, “ Metliinks I see a token from my father, mad- 
am ;” and immediately crossing the apartment, she took 
Roland Grseme by the skii t of the cloak, and asked him 
earnestly whence he had that sword. 

The page answered with surprise, “ Methinks this is 
no presence in which to jest — Surely, damsel, you your- 
self best know whence and how 1 obtained tbe weapon.” 

“ Is this a time for folly .^” said Catherine Seyton 5 
“ unsheathe the sword instantly !” 

“ If the Queen commands me ;” said the youth, look- 
ing towards his royal mistress. 

“ For shame, maiden !” said the Queen ; “ wouldst 
thou instigate the poor boy to enter into useless strife with 
the two most approved soldiers in Scotland .^” 

“ In your Grace’s cause,” replied the page, “ 1 will 
venture my life upon them !” And as he spoke, he drew 
his weapon partly from the sheath, and a piece of parch- 
ment, rolled around the blade, fell out and dropped on 
tbe floor. Catherine Seyton caught it up with eager 
haste. 

“ It is my father’s hand-writing,” she said, “ and doubt- 
less conveys his best duteous advice to your Majesty ; I 
knew that it was prepared to be sent in this weapon, but 
I expected another messenger.” 

By my faith, fair one, thought Roland, and if you knew 
not that I had such a secret missive about me, I was yet 
more ignorant. 

The Queen cast her eye upon the scroll, and remain- 
ed a few minutes wrapped in deep thought. “ Sir Rob- 
ert IMelville,” she at length said, “ this scroll advises me 
to submit myself to necessity, and to subsci ibe the deeds 


THE ABBOT. 


31 


these hard men have brought with them, as one who gives 
way to the natural fear inspired by the threats of rebels 
and murderers. You, Sir Robert, are a wise man, and 
Seyton is both sagacious and brave. Neither, 1 think, 
would mislead me^CT^this matter.*' 

“ Madam,” said Melville, “ if I have not the strength 
of body of the Lords Herries or Seyton, I will yield to 
neither in zeal for your Majesty’s service. 1 cannot fight 
for you like these Lords, but neither of them is more 
willing to die for your service.” 

“ 1 believe it, my old and faithful counsellor,” said the 
Queen ; “ and believe me, Melville, I did thee but a 
moment’s injustice. Read what my Lord Seyton hath 
written to us, and give us thy best counsel.” 

He glanced over the parchment, and instantly replied, 
— “ O ! my dear and royal mistress, only treason itself 
could give you other advice than Lord Seyton has here 
expressed. He, Herries, Hunily, the English ambassa 
dor Throgmorton, and others, your friends, are all alike 
of opinion, that, whatever deeds or instruments you exe- 
cute within these walls, must lose all force and effect, as 
extorted from your Grace by duresse, by sufferance of 
present evil, and fear of men, and harm to ensue on your 
refusal. Yield, therefore, to the tide, and be assured, 
that in subscribing what parchments they present to you, 
you bind yourself to nothing, since your act of signature 
wants that which alone can make it valid, the free will of 
the granter.” 

“ Ay, so says my Lord Seyton,” replied Mary ; yet 
methinks, for the daughter of so long a line of sovereigns 
to resign her birth-right, because rebels press upon her 
with threats, argues little of royalty, and will read ill for 
the fame of Mary in future chronicles. Tush ! Sir Rob- 
ert Melville, the traitors may use black threats and bold 
words, but they will not dare to put their hands forth on 
our person?” 

“ Alas ! madam, they have already dared so far, and 
incurred such peril by the lengths which they have gone, 
that they are but one step from the worst and uttermost.” 


32 


THE ABBOT. 


‘‘ Surely,” said the Queen, her fears again predomin- 
ating, “ Scottish nobles would not lend themselves to as- 
sassinate a helpless woman ?” 

“ Bethink you, madam,” he rej^ied, “ what horrid 
spectacles have been seen in our day ; and what act is so 
dark, that some Scottish hand has not been found to dare 
it ? Lord Lindesay, besides his natural sullenness and 
hardness of temper, is the near kinsman of Henry Darn- 
ley, and Ruthven has his own deep and dangerous plans. 
The Council, besides, speak of proofs by writ and word, 
of a casket with letters — of 1 know not what.” 

“ Ah ! good Melville,” answered the Queen, “ were 
I as sure of the even-handed integrity of my judges, as 
of my own innocence — and yet ” 

“ Oh ! pause, madam,” said Melville ; “ even inno- 
cence must sometimes for a season stoop to injurious 
blame. Besides, you are here ” 

He looked round, and paused. 

“ Speak out, Melville,” said the Queen ; “ never one 
approached my person who wished to work me evil ; and 
even this poor page, whom 1 have to-day seen for the 
first time in my life, I can trust safely with your com- 
munication. 

“ Nay, madam,” answered Melville, “ in such emer- 
gence, and he being the bearer of Lord Sey ton’s mes- 
sage, I will venture to say before him and these fair ladies, 
whose truth and fidelity I dispute not — I say I will ven- 
ture to say, that there are other modes besides that of 
open trial, by which deposed sovereigns often die; and 
that, as Machiavel saith, there is but one step betwixt a 
king’s prison and his grave.” 

“ Oh ! were it but swift and easy for the body,” said 
the unfortunate Princess ; “ were it but a safe and happy 
change for the soul, the woman lives not that would take 
the step so soon as I ! — But, alas ! Melville, when we 
think of death, a thousand sins, which we have trod as 
worms beneath our feet, rise up against us as flam- 
ing serpents. Most injuriously do they accuse me of 
aiding Darnley’s death ; yet blessed Lady ! 1 afford- 


THE ABBOT. 


33 


ed too open occasion for the suspicion — I espoused 
Bothvvell.” 

“ Think not of that now, madam,” said Melville ; 
“ think rather of the immediate mode of saving yourself 
and son. Comply(>with the present unreasonable de- 
mands, and trust that better times will shortly arrive.” 

“ Madam,” said Roland Graeme, “ if it pleases you 
that I should do so, I will presently swim through the 
lake, if they refuse me other conveyance to the shore ; 
I will go to the courts successively of England, France, 
and Spain, and will show you have subscribed these vile in- 
struments from no stronger impulse than the fear of death, 
and I will do battle against them that say otherwise.” 

The Queen turned her round, and with one of those 
sweet smiles which, during the era of life’s romance, 
overpay every risk, held her hand towards Roland, but 
without speaking a word. He kneeled reverently and 
kissed it, and Melville again resumed his plea. 

“Madam,” he said, “ time presses, and you must not 
let those boats, which I see they are even now preparing, 
put forth on the lake. Here are enough of witnesses — 
your ladles — this bold youth — myself, when it can serve 
your cause effectually, for I would not hastily stand com- 
mitted in this matter — but even without me here is evi- 
dence enough to show, that you have yielded to the de- 
mands of the Council through force and fear, but from 
no sincere and unconstrained assent. Their boats are 
already manned for their return — oh ! permit your old 
servant to recall them.” 

“ Melville,” said the Queen, “ thou art an ancient 
courtier — when didst thou ever know a Sovereign Prince 
recall to his presence subjects, who had parted from him 
on such terms as those on which these envoys of the 
Council left us, and who yet w^ere recalled without sub- 
mission or apology.^ — Let it cost me both life and crown, 
I will not again command them to my presence.” 

“ Alas ! madam, that empty form should make a bar- 
rier ! If I rightl) understand, you are not unwilling to 
listen to real and advantageous counsel — but your scruple 


34 


THE ABBOT. 


is saved — I hear them returning to ask your final resolu- 
tion. — O ! take the advice of the noble Seyton, and you may 
once more command those who now usurp a triumph 
over you. But hush ! I hear them in the vestibule.” 

As he concluded speaking, Geo»ge Douglas opened 
the door of the apartment, and marshalled in the two 
noble envoys. 

“ We come, madam,” said the Lord Rutbven, “ to 
request your answer to the proposal of the Council.” 

‘‘ Your final answer,” said Lord Lindesay, “ for with 
a refusal you must couple the certainty that you have 
precipitated your fate, and renounced the last opportuni- 
ty of making peace with God, and ensuring your longer 
abode in the world.” 

“ My Lords,” said Mary, with inexpressible grace and 
dignity, “the evils we cannot resist we must submit to, 
I will subscribe these parchments with such liberty of 
choice as my condition permits me. Were I on yonder 
shore, with a fleet jennet and ten good and loyal knights 
around me, I would subscribe my sentence of eternal 
condemnation as soon as the resignation of my throne. 
But here, in the castle of Lochleven, with deep water 
around me — and you, my Lords, beside me, — 1 have no 
freedom of choice. Give me the pen, Melville, and 
bear witness to what I do, and why 1 do it.” 

“ It is our hope your Grace will not suppose yourself 
compelled, by any apprehensions from us,” said the 
Lord Ruthven, “ to execute what must be your own vol- 
untary deed.” 

The Queen had already stooped towards the table, 
and placed the parchment before her, with the pen be- 
tween her fingers, ready for the important act of signa- 
ture. But when Lord Ruthven had done speaking, she 
looked up, stopped short, and threw down the pen. “ If,” 
said she, “ I am expected to declare I give away 
my crown of free will, or otherwise than because I am 
compelled to renounce it by the threat of worse evils to 
myself and my subjects, I will not put my name to such 
an untruth — not to gain full possession of England, 


THE ABBOT. 


35 


France, and Scotland, all once my own. in possession or 
by right.” 

“ Beware, madam,” said Lindesay ; and snatching 
hold of the Queen’s arm with his own gauntletted hand, 
he pressed it, in the rudeness of his passion, more close- 
ly perhaps than he was himself aware of, — beware how 
you contend with those who are the stronger, and have 
the mastery of your fate!” 

He held his grasp on her arm, bending his eyes on 
ner with a stern and intimidating look, till both Ruthven 
and Melville cried shame ! and Douglas, who had hith- 
erto remained in a state of apparent apathy, had made 
a stride from the door, as if to interfere. The rude 
Baron then quitted his hold, disguising the confusion 
which he really felt at having indidged his passion to such 
extent, under a sullen and contemptuous smile. 

The Queen immediately began, with an expression of 
pain, to bare the arm which he had grasped, by drawing 
up the sleeve of her gown ; and it appeared that his 
gripe had left the purple marks of his iron fingers upon 
her flesh. “ My Lord,” she said, “ as a knight and 
gentleman, you might have spared my frail arm so se- 
vere a proof that you have the greater strength on your 
side, and are resolved to use it. But I thank you for it 
— it is the most decisive token of the terms on whicl) 
this day’s business is to rest. — I draw* you to witness, 
both lords and ladies,” she said, showung the marks of 
the grasp on her arm, “ that I subscribe these instru- 
ments in obedience to the sign manual of my Lord of 
Lindesay, which you may see imprinted on mine arm.”^ 

Lindesay would have spoken, but was restrained by 
his colleague Ruthven, who said to him, “ Peace, my 
Lord. Let the Lady Mary of Scotland ascribe her sig- 
nature to what she will, it is our business to procure it, 
and carry it to the Council. Should there be debate 
hereafter on the manner in which it was adhibited, there 
will be lime enough for it.” 

X4indesay was silent accordingly, only muttering wdth- 


36 


THE ABBOT. 


in his beard, ‘‘ I meant not to hurt her ; but I think 
■women’s flesh be as tender as new-fallen snow.” 

The Queen meanwhile subscribed the rolls of parch- 
ment with a hasty indifference, as ii they had been mat- 
ters of slight consequence, or ol mere formality. When 
she had performed this painful task, she arose, and, hav- 
ing curtsied to the Lords, was about to withdraw to her 
chamber. Ruthven and Sir Robert Melville made, the 
first a formal reverence, the second an obeisance, in 
which his desire to acknowledge his sympathy was ob- 
viously checked by the fear of appearing in the eyes of 
his colleagues too partial to his former mistress. But 
Lindesay stood motionless, even when they were pre- 
paring to withdraw. At length, as if moved by a sudden 
impulse, he walked round the table which had hitherto 
been betwixt them and the Queen, kneeled on one knee, 
took her hand, kissed it, let it fall, and arose — “ Lady,” 
he said, “ thou art a noble creature, even though thou 
hast abused God’s choicest gifts. I pay that devotion to 
thy manliness of spirit, which I would not have paid to 
the power thou hast long undeservedly wielded — I kneel 
to Mary Stuart, not to the Queen.” 

“ The Queen and Mary Stuart pity thee alike, Linde- 
say,” said Mary — “ alike they pity, and they forgive 
thee. An honoured soldier hadst thou been by a king’s 
side — leagued with rebels, what art thou but a good blade 
in the hands of a ruffian — Farewell, my Lord Ruthven, 
the smoother but the deeper traitor. — Farewell, Mel- 
ville — Maystthou find masters that can understand state 
policy better, and have the means to reward it more rich- 
ly, than Mary Stuart! — Farewell, George of Douglas — 
make your respected grand-dame comprehend that we 
would be alone for the remainder of the day — God wot, 
we have need to collect our thoughts.” 

All bowed and withdrew ; but scarce had they enter- 
ed the vestibule, ere Ruthven and Lindesay were at va- 
riance. “ Chide not with me, Ruthven,” Lindesay was 
heard to say, in answer to something more indistincilv 
urged by his colleague — “ Chide not with me, for 1 will 


THE ABBOT. 


37 


not brook it ! You put the hangman’s office on me in 
this matter, and even the very hangman hath leave to ask 
some pardon of those on whom he does his office. I 
would I had as deep cause to be this lady’s friend as J 
have to be her enemy — thou sliouldst see if I spared 
limb and life in her quarrel.” 

“ Tliou art a sweet minion,” said Ruthven, “to fight 
a lady’s quarrel, and all for a brent brow and a tear in 
the eye ! Such toys have been out of thy thoughts this 
many a year.” 

“ Do me right, Ruthven,” said Lindesay. “ You are 
like a polished corslet of steel ; it shines more gaudily, 
but it is not a whit softer — nay, it is five times harder 
than a Glasgow breast-plate of hammered iron. Enough 
— we know each other.” 

They descended the stairs, were heard to summon 
their boats, and the Queen signed to Roland Grasrne to 
retire to the vestibule, and leave her with her female 
attendants. 


CHAPTER III. 

Give me a morsel on the greensward rather, 

Coarse as you will the cooking — Let the fresh spring 
Bubble beside my napkin — and the free birds, 
Twittering and chirping, hop from bough to bough, 
To claim the ciTunbs I leave for perquisites — 

Your prison-feasts I like not. 

The Woodsman, a Dranux. 


A RECESS in the vestibule was enlightened by a small 
window, at which Roland Graeme stationed himself to 
mark the departure of the lords. Ho could see their 
followers mustering on horseback under their respective 
banners — the western sun glancing on their corslets and 
steel caps as they moved to and fro, mounted or dis- 
4 VOL. n. 


38 


THE ABBOT. 


mounted, at intervals. On the narrow space betwixt the 
castle and the water, the Lords Rutliven and Lindesay 
were already moving slowly to their boats, accompanied 
by the Lady of Lochleven, lier grandson, and their prin- 
cipal attendants. They took a ceremonious leave of 
each other, as Roland could discern by their gestures, 
and the boats put off from their landing-place ; the boat- 
men stretched to their oars, and they speedily diminish- 
ed upon the eye of the idle gazer, who had no better 
employment than to watch their motions. Such seemed 
also the occupation of the Lady Lochleven and George 
Douglas, who, returning from the landing-place, looked 
frequently back to the boats, and at length stopped as if 
to observe their progress, under the window at which 
Roland Graeme was stationed. — As they gazed on the 
lake, he could hear the lady distinctly say, “ And she 
has bent her mind to save her life at the expense of her 
kingdom 

“ Her life, madam !” replied her son ; “ I know not 
who would dare to attempt it in the castle of my father. 
Had I dreamt that it was with such purpose that Linde- 
say insisted on bringing his followers hither, neither he 
nor they should have passed the iron gate of Lochleven 
castle.” 

“ 1 speak not of private slaughter, my son, but of open 
trial, condemnation, and execution ; for with such she 
has been threatened, and to such threats she has given 
way. Had she not more of the false Guisian blood 
than of the royal race of Scotland in her veins, she had 
^ bidden them defiance to their teeth — But it is all of the 
same complexion, and meanness is the natural compan- 
ion of profligacy. — I am discharged, forsooth, from in- 
truding on her gracious presence this evening. Go thou, 
my son, and render the usual service of the meal to this 
unqueened Queen.” 

“ So please you, lady mother,” said Douglas, “ I 
care not greatly to approach her presence.” 

“ Thou art right, my son'; and therefore I trust thy 
prudence, even because I have noted thy caution. She 


THE ABBOT. 


39 


is like an isle on the ocean, surrounded with shelves and 
quicksands ; its verdure fair and inviting to tlie eye, but 
the wreck of many a goodly vessel which had approach- 
ed it too rashly. But lor thee, my son, 1 fear nought j 
and we may not, with our honour, suffer her to eat with- 
out the attendance of one of us. She may die by the 
judgment of Heaven, or the fiend may have power over 
her in her despair ; and then we would be touched in 
honour to show, that in our house, and at our table, she 
had had all fair play and fitting usage.” 

Here Roland was interrupted by a smart tap on the 
shoulders, reminding him sharply of Adam Woodcock’s 
adventure of the preceding evening. He turned round, 
almost expecting to see the page of Saint Michael’s 
hostelry. He saw indeed Catherine Seyton ; but she 
was in female attire, differing, no doubt, a great deal in 
shape and materials from that which she had worn when 
they first met, and becoming her birth as the daugh- 
ter of a great baron, and her rank as the attendant on a 
princess. 

“ So, fair page,” said she, “ eavesdropping is one of 
your page-like qualities, I presume.” 

“ Fair sister,” answ'ered Roland in the same tone, 

“ if some friends of mine be as well acquainted with the 
rest of our mystery as they are with the arts of swear- 
ing, swaggering, and switching, they need ask no page in 
Christendom for further insight into his vocation.” 

Unless that pretty speech infer that you have your- 
self had the discipline of the switch since we last met, 
the probability whereof I nothing doubt, I profess, fair 
])age, I am at a loss to conjecture your meaning. But 
there is no time to debate it now% they come with the 
evening meal. I^e j)leased. Sir Page, to do your duty.’ 

Four servants entered, bearing dishes, preceded by 
the same stern old steward whom Roland had already 
seen and followed by George Douglas, already mention 
ed as the grandson of the I^ady of Lochleven, and who 
acting as seneschal, represented, upon tins occasion, hi.r 
fatlier, the Lord of the castle. He entered will) his ai'uii 


40 


THE ABBOT. 


folded on his bosom, and his looks bent on the ground. 
With the assistance of Roland Graime, a table was suit- 
ably covered in the next or middle apartment, on which 
the domestics placed their burdens with great reverence, 
the steward and Douglas bending low when they had 
seen the table properly adorned, as if their royal prison- 
er had sat at the board in question. The door opened, 
and Douglas raising his eyes hastily, cast them again on 
the earth, when he perceived it was only the Lady Mary 
Fleming who entered. 

“ Her Grace,” she said, will not eat to-night.” 

“ Let us hope she may be otherwise persuaded,” said 
Douglas ; ‘‘ meanwhile, madam, please to see our duty 
performed.” 

A servant presented bread and salt on a silver plate, 
and the old steward carved for Douglas a small morsel in 
succession from each of the dishes presented, which he 
tasted, as was then the custom at the tables of princes, 
to which death was often suspected to find its way in the 
disguise of food. 

“ The Queen will not then come forth to-night 
said DoJiglas. 

“ She has so determined,” replied the lady. 

“ Our further attendance then is unnecessary — We 
leave you to your supper, fair ladies, and wish you good 
even.” 

He retired slowly as he came, and with the same air 
of deep dejection, and was followed by the attendants 
belonging to the castle. The two ladies sat down to their 
meal, and Roland Graeme, with ready alacrity, prepared 
to W’ait upon them. Catherine Sey ton whispered to her 
companion, wdio replied with the question, spoken in a 
low tone, but looking at the page — “ Is he of gentle 
blood, and well nurtured 

The answer which she received seemed satisfactory, 
for she said to Roland, “ Sit down, young gentleman, 
and eat with your sisters in captivity.” 

‘‘ Permit me rather to perform my duty in attending 
them,” said Roland, anxious to show he was possessed 


THE ABBOT. 


41 


of the higli tone of deference prescribed by the rules of 
chivalry towards the fair sex, and especially to dames 
and maidens of quality. 

“You will find, Sir Page,” said Catherine, “you 
will have little time allowed you for your meal ; waste it 
not in ceremony, or you may rue your politeness ere to- 
morrow morning.” 

“ Your speech is tod free, maiden,” said the elder 
lady ; “ the modesty of the youth may teach you more 
fitting fashions towards one whom to- day you have seen 
for the first time.” 

Catherine Seyton cast down her eyes, but not till she 
had given a single glance of inexpressible archness to- 
wards Roland, whom her more grave companion now 
addressed in a tone of protection. 

“ Regard her not, young gentleman — she knows little 
of the world, save the forms of a country nunnery — take 
thy place at the board-end, and refresh thyself after thy 
journey.” 

Roland Graeme obeyed willingly, as it was the first 
food he had that day tasted ; for Lindesay and his fol- 
lowers seemed regardless of human wants. Yet, not- 
withstanding the sharpness of his appetite, a^natural gal- 
lantry of disposition, the desire of showing himself a 
well-nurtured gentleman in all courtesies towards the fair 
sex, and, for aught 1 know, the pleasure of assisting 
Catherine Seyton, kept his attention awake during the 
meal, to all those nameless acts of duty and service which 
gallants of that age were accustomed to render. He 
carved with neatness and decorum, and selected duly 
whatever was most delicate to place before the ladies. 
Ere they could form a wish, he sprung from the table, 
ready to comply with it-— poured wine — tempered it with 
water — -removed and exchanged trenchers, and perform- 
ed the whole honours of the table, with an air at once 
of cheerful diligence, prpfound respect, apd graceful 
promptitude. 

4^ VOL. II, 


42 


THE ABBOT. 


When he observed that they had finished eating, he 
hastened to ofl:er to the elder lady the silver ewer, basin, 
and napkin, with the ceremony and gravity which he 
would have used towards Mary herself. He next, with 
the same decorum, having supplied the basin with fair 
water, presented it to Catherine Seyton. Apparently, 
she was determined to disturb his self-possession, if pos- 
sible ; for, while in the act of bathing her hands, she 
contrived, as it were, by accident, to flirt some drops of 
water upon the face of the assiduous assistant. But if 
such was her mischievous purpose, she was completely 
disappointed ; for Roland GiEeme, internally piquing 
himself on his self-command, neither laughed nor was 
discomposed ; and all that the maiden gained by her 
frolic was a severe rebuke from her companion, taxing 
her with mal-address and indecorum. Catherine replied 
not, but sat pouting, something in the humour of a spoilt 
child, who watches the opportunity of wreaking upon 
some one or other its resentment for a deserved repri- 
mand. 

The Lady Mary Fleming, in the meanwhile, was nat- 
urally well pleased with the exact and reverent observ- 
ance of the«)age, and said to Catherine, after a favoura- 
ble glance'^t Roland Graeme, — “ You might well say, 
Catherine, our companion in captivity was well-born and 
gently nurtured. 1 would not make him vain by my 
praise, but his services enable us to dispense with those 
which George Douglas condescends not to aflbrd us, 
save when the Queen is herself in presence.” 

“ Umph ! I think hardly,” answered Catherine. 
“ George Douglas is one of the most handsome gallants 
in Scotland, and ’tis pleasure to see him even still, when 
the gloom of Lochleven Castle has shed the same mel- 
ancholy over him, that it has done over every thing else. 
When he was at Holyrood, who w^ould have said the 
young sprightly George Douglas would have been con- 
tented to play the locksman here in Lochleven, with no 
gayer amusement than that of turning the key on two or 
three helpless women — a strange office foi a Knight of 


THE ABBOT. 


43 


the Bleeding Heart — why does he not leave it to his 
father or his brothers r” 

“ Perhaps, like us, he has no choice,” answered the 
Lady Fleming. “ But, Catherine, thou hast used thy 
brief space at court well, to remember what George 
Douglas was then.” 

“ 1 used mine eyes, which I suppose was what 1 was 
designed to do, and they were worth using there. When 
I was at the nunnery, they were very useless apperte- 
nances ; and now I am at Lochleven, they are good for 
nothing, save to look over that eternal work of embroid- 
ery.” 

“ You speak thus, when you have been but a few brief 
hours amongst us — was this the maiden who would live 
and die in a dungeon, might she but have permission to 
wait on her gracious Queen ?” 

“ Nay, if you chide in earnest, my jest is ended,” 
said Catherine Seyton. “ I would not yield in attach- 
ment to my poor god-mother, to the gravest dame that 
ever had wise saws upon her tongue, and a double-starch- 
ed ruft* around her throat — you know I would not. Dame 
Mary Fleming, and it is putting shame on _nie to say 
otherwise.” 

She will challenge the other court ladyjWbbught Bo- 
land GraBtne j she will to a certainty fling down her 
glove, and if Dame Mary Fleming hath but the soul to 
lift it, we may have a combat in the lists ! — Bu1*the an- 
swer of Lady Mary Fleming was such as turns away 
wrath. 

“ Thou art a good child,” she said, “my Catherine, 
and a faithful ; but heaven pity him who shall have one 
day a creature so beautiful to delight him, and a thing so 
mischievous to torment him — thou art fit to drive twenty 
husbands stark mad.” 

“ Nay,” said Catherine, resuming the full career of 
her careless good-humour, “ he must be half-witted be- 
forehand, that gives me such an opportunity. But I am 
glad you are not angry with me in sincerity,” casting her- 
self as she spoke into the arms of her friend, and con- 


44 


THE ABBOT. 


tlnuing, with a tone of apologetic fondness, wliile she 
kissed her on eiiiier side of the face; “ you know, my 
dear Fleming, that I hav^e to contend with both my fath- 
er’s lofty pride, and with my mother’s high spirit — God 
bless them ! they have left me these good qualities, hav- 
ing small portion to give besides, as times go — and so I am 
wilful and saucy ; but let me remain only a week in this 
castle, and O, my dear Fleming, my spirit will be as 
chastised and as humble as thine’own.” 

Dame Mary Fleming’s sense of dignity, and love of 
form, could not resist this affectionate appeal. She kiss- 
ed Catherine Seyton in her turn affectionately ; while 
answering the last part of her speech, she said, “ Now, 
Our Lady forbid, dear Catherine, that you should lose 
aught that is beseeming of what becomes so well your 
light heart and lively humour. Keep but your sharp wit 
on this side of madness, and it cannot but be a blessing 
to us. But let me go, mad wench — I hear her Grace 
touch her silver call.” And, extricating herself from 
Catherine’s grasp, she went towards the door of Queen 
Mary’s apartment, from which was heard the low tone 
of a 'silver whistle, which, now only used by the boat- 
sw^ns in. tJje navy, was then, for want of bells, the ordi- 
nary mod'^Jy which ladies, even of the very highest 
rank, sunjmoned their domestics. When she had made 
two or three steps towards the door however, she 
turned back, and advancing to the young couple whom 
she left together, she said in a very serious though a low 
tone, “ I trust it is impossible that we can, any of us, or 
in any circumstances, forget, that few as we are, we form 
the household of the Queen of Scotland ; and that, in 
her calamity, all boyish mirth and childish jesting can 
only serve to give a great triumph to her enemies, who 
liave already found their account in objecting to her the 
lightness of every idle folly, that the young and the gay 
practised in her court.” So saying, she left the apart- 
ment. 

Catherine Seyton seemed much struck with this re- 
monstrance — She suffered herself to drop into the seat 


THE ABBOT. 


45 


which she had quitted when she went to embrace Dame 
Mary Fleming, and for some time rested her brow upon 
her hands ; while Roland Gra3mc looked at her earn- 
estly, with a mixture of emotions which perhaps he him- 
self could neither have analyzed nor explained. As she 
raised her face slowly from the posture to which a mo- 
mentary feeling of self-rebuke had depressed it, her eyes 
encountered those of Roland, and became gradually an- 
imated with their usual spirit of malicious drollery, which 
not unnaturally excited a similar expression in those of 
the equally volatile page. They sat for the space of 
two minutes, each looking at the other with great serious- 
ness on their features, and much mirth in their eyes, un- 
til at length Catherine was the first to break silence. 

“ May I pray you, fair sir,” she began, very demurely, 
“ to tell me what you see in my fiice to arouse looks so 
extremely sagacious and knowing as those with which 
it is your worship’s pleasure to honour me t It would 
seem as there were some wonderful confidence and inti- 
macy betwixt us, fair sir, if one is to judge from your 
extremely cunning looks; and so help me. Our Lady, 
as 1 never saw you but twice in my life before.” 

“ And where were those happy occasions,” said Ro- 
land, “ if I may be bold enough to ask the question 

“ At the nunnery of Saint Catherine’s,” said the dam- 
sel, “ in the first instance ; and, in the second, during 
five minutes of a certain raid or foray which it was your 
pleasure to make into the lodging of my lord and father. 
Lord Seyton, from which, to my surprise, as probably 
to your own, you returned with a token of friendship 
and favour, instead of broken bones, which were the 
more probable reward of your intrusion, considering 
the prompt ire of the house of Seyton. I am deeply 
mortified,” she added, ironically, “ that your recollec- 
tion should require refreshment on a subject so impor- 
tant ; and that my memory should be stronger than yours 
on such an occasion, is truly humiliating.” 

“ Your own memory is not so exactly correct, fair 
mistress,” answered the page, seeing you have forgotten 


46 


THE ABBOT. 


meeting the third, in the hostelry of Saint Michael’s, 
when it pleased you to lay your switch across the lace 
of my comrade, in order, I warrant, to show that, in the 
house of Seyion, neither the prompt ire of its descend- 
ants, nor the use of the doublet and hose, are subject to 
Salique law, or confined to the use of the males.” 

“ Fair sir,” answered Catherine, looking at him with 
great steadiness, and some surprise, “ unless your lair 
wits have forsaken you, 1 am at a loss what to conjec- 
ture of your meaning.” 

“ By my troth, fair mistress,” answered Roland, 
“ and were I as wise a warlock as Michael Scott, 1 could 
scarce riddle the dream you read me. Did 1 not see 
you last night in the hostelry of Saint Michael’s.^ — Did 
you not bring me this sword, with command not to 
draw it, save at the command of my native and rightful 
sovereign.^ .And have 1 not done as you required me 
Or is the sword a piece of lath — my word a bulrush — 
my memory a dream — and my eyes good for nought — 
espials which corbies might pick out of my head .^” 

“ And if your eyes serve you not more truly on other 
occasions than in your vision of Saint Michael,” said 
Catherine, 1 know not, the pain apart, that the cor- 
bies would do you any great injury in the deprivation — 
But hark, the bell — hush, for God’s sake, we are inter- 
rupted.” — 

The damsel was right ; for no sooner had the dull 
toll of the castle bell begun to resound through the vault- 
ed apartment, than the door of the vestibule flew open, 
and the steward, with his severe countenance, his gold 
chain, and his white rod, entered the apartment, followed 
by the same train of domestics who had placed the din- 
ner on the table, and wdio now, with the same ceremoni- 
ous formality, began to remove it. 

The steward remained motionless as some old pic- 
ture, while the domestics did their office; and when 
it was accomplished, every thing removed from the table, 
and the board itself taken from its tressels and disposed 
against the wall, he said aloud without addressing any 


THE ABBOT. 


47 


one in particular, and son)ewhat in ilie tone of a herald 
reading a proclamation, “ My noble lady. Dame Marga- 
ret Erskine, by marriage, Douglas, lets the Lady Mary 
of Scotland and her attendants to wit, that a servant of 
the true evangele, her reverend chaplain, will to-night, 
as usual, expound, lecture, and catechize, according to 
the forms of the congregation of gospellers.” 

“Hark you, my friend, Mr. Dryfesdale,” said Cath- 
erine, “ I understand this announcement is a nightly form 
of yours. Now, I pray you to remark, that the Lady 
Fleming and 1 — for 1 trust your insolent invitation con- 
cerns us only — have chosen Saint Peter’s pathw'ay to 
heaven ; so 1 see no one whom your godly exhortation, 
catechize, or lecture, can benefit, excepting this poor 
page, who, being in Satan’s hand as well as yourself, 
had better worship with you than remain to cumber our 
better-advised devotions.” 

The page was well nigh giving a round denial to the 
assertion which this speech implied, when, remembering 
what had passed betwixt him and the Regent, and see- 
ing Catherine’s finger raised in a monitory fashion, he 
felt himself, as on former occasions at the Castle of 
Avenel, obliged to submit to the task of dissimulation, anc* 
followed Dryfesdale down to the castle-chapel, where Ik? 
assisted in the devotions of the evening. 

The chaplain was named Elias Henderson. He wa? 
a man in the prime of life, and possessed of good natu- 
ral parts, carefully improved by the best education whiclj 
those times afforded. To these qualities were added a 
faculty of close and terse reasoning, and, at intervals 
a flow of happy illustration and natural eloquence. The 
religious faith of Roland Grajme, as we have already had 
opportunity to observe, rested on no secure basis, but was 
entertained rather in obedience to his grandmother’s be- 
hests, and his secret desire to contradict the chaplain of 
Avenel Castle, than from any fixed or steady reliance 
which he placed on the Romish creed. His ideas had 
been of late considerably enlarged by the scenes he had 
passed through ; and feeling tliat there was shame in 


48 


THE ABBOT. 


not understanding something of those political disputes 
betwixt the professors of the ancient and of the reformed 
faith, he listened with more attention than it had hitherto 
been in his nature to yield on such occasions, to an ani- 
mated discussion of some of tlie principal points of dif- 
ference betwixt the churches. So passed away the first 
day in the Castle of Lochleven ; and those which follow- 
ed it, were, for some time, of a very monotonous and 
uniform tenor. 


CHAPTER IV. 


’Tis a weary life this 

Vaults overhead, and grates and bars around me, 

And my sad hours spent with as sad companions, 

Wliose thouglits are brooding o’er their own mischances, 
Far, far too deeph' to lake part in mine. 

The Woodsman. 


The course of life to which Mary and her little reti- 
nue were doomed, was in the last degree secluded and 
lonely, varied only as the weather permitted or rendered 
impossible the Queen’s usual walk in the garden, or on 
the battlements. The greater part of the morning she 
wrought with her ladies at those pieces of needle-work, 
many of which still remain proofs of her indefatigable 
application. At such hours the page was permitted the 
freedom of the castle and islet; nay, he w^as sometimes 
invited to attend George Douglas when he went a- 
sporting upon the lake, or on its margin ; opportunities 
of diversion, wdiich were only clouded by the remarka' 
ble melancholy which always seemed to brood on that 
gentleman’s brow, and to mark his whole demeanour, — 
a sadness so profound, that Roland never observed him 
to smile or to speak any word unconnected with the im- 
mediate object of their exercise. 

The most pleasant part of Roland’s day. was the oc- 


THE ABBOT. 


40 


casional space which he was permitted to pass in per- 
sonal attendance on the Queen and her ladies, together 
with the regular dinner-time, which he always spent with 
dame Mary Fleming and Catherine Seyton. At these 
periods, he had frequent occasion to admire the lively 
spirit and inventive imagination of the latter damsel, who 
was unwearied in her contrivances to amuse her mistress, 
and to banish, for a time at least, the melancholy which 
preyed on her bosom. She danced, she sung, she re- 
cited tales of ancient and modern times, with that heart- 
felt exertion of talent, of which the pleasure lies not in 
the vanity of displaying it to others, but in the enthusi- 
astic consciousness that we possess it ourselves. And 
yet these high accomplishments were mixed with an air 
of rusticity and hair-brained vivacity, which seemed 
rather to belong to some village-maid, the coquette of 
the ring around the May-pole, than to the high-bred 
descendant of an ancient baron. A touch of audacity, 
altogether short of effrontery, and far less approaching to 
vulgarity, gave as it were a wildness to all that she did, 
and Mary, while defending her from some of the occasion- 
al censures of her grave companion, compared her to a 
trained singing-bird escaped from a cage, which prac- 
tises in all the luxuriance of freedom, and in full posses- 
sion of the greenwood bough, the airs which it had 
learned during its earlier captivity. 

The moments which the page was permitted to pass 
in the presence of this fascinating creature, danced so 
rapidly away, that, brief as they were, they compen- 
sated the weary dulness of all the rest of the day. The 
space of indulgence, however, was always brief, nor 
were any private interviews betwixt him and Catherine 
])ermitted, or even possible. Whether it were some 
special precaution respecting the Queen’s household, or 
whether It were her general ideas of propriety, dame 
Fleming seemed particularly attentive to prevent the 
young people from holding any separate correspondence 
together, and bestowed, for Catherine’s sole benefit in 
5 VOL. 11. 


50 


THE ABBOl. 


this matter, the full stock of prudence and experience 
which she liad acquired, when motlier of the Queen’s 
maidens of honour, and by which she had gained their 
hearty hatred. Casual meetings, however, could not be 
prevented, unless Catberine had been more desirous of 
shunning, or Roland Graeme less anxious in watching 
for them. A smile, a gibe, a sarcasm, disarmed of its 
severity by the arch look with which it was accompanied, 
was all that time permitted to pass between them on 
such occasions. But such passing interviews neither af- 
forded means nor opportunity to renew the discussion of 
the circumstances attending their earlier acquaintance, 
nor to permit Roland to investigate more accurately the 
mysterious apparition of the page in the purple velvet 
cloak at the hostelry of Saint IVlichael’s. 

The winter months slipped heavily away, and spring 
was already advanced, when Roland Graeme observed 
a gradual change in the manners of his fellow-prisoners. 
Having no business of his own to attend to, and being, 
like those of his age, education, and degree, sufficiently 
curious concerning what passed around, he began by 
degrees to suspect, and finally to be convinced, that 
there was something in agitation among his companions 
in captivity, to which they did not desire that he should be 
privy. Nay, he became almost certain that, by some 
means unintelligible to him. Queen Mary held corres- 
pondence beyond the walls and waters which surround- 
ed her prison-house, and that she nourished some secret 
hope of deliverance or escape. In the conversations 
betwixt her and her attendants, at which he was neces- 
sarily present, the Queen could not always avoid show- 
ing that she was acquainted with the events which were 
passing abroad in the world, and which he only heard 
through her report. He observed that she wrote more 
and worked less than had been her former custom, and 
that, as if desirous to lull suspicion asleep, she changed 
her manner towards the Lady Lochleven into one more 
gracious, and which seemed to express a resigned sub- 
mission to her lot. “They think 1 am blind,” he said 


THE ABBOT. 


61 


to himself, “ and that I am unfit to be trusted because 
I am so young, or it may be because I was sent liither 
by the Regent. Well ! — be it so ! — they may be glad 
to confide in me in the long run ; and Catherine Seyton, 
for as saucy as she is, may find me as safe a confidant 
as that sullen Douglas, whom she is always running after. 
It may be they are angry with me for listening to Master 
Elias Henderson ; but it was their own fault for sending 
me there, and if the man speaks truth and good sense, 
and preaches only the word of God, he is as likely to be 
right as either Pope or Councils.” 

It is probable that in this last conjecture, Roland Grteme 
had hit upon the real cause why the ladies had not en- 
trusted him with their counsels. He had of late had 
several conferences with Henderson on the subject of 
religion, and had given him to understand that he stood 
in need of his instructions, although he had not thought 
there was either prudence or necessity for confessing that 
hitherto he had held the tenets of the Church of Rome. 

Elias Henderson, a keen propagator of the reformed 
faith, had sought the seclusion of Lochleven Castle, 
with the express purpose and expectation of making con- 
verts from Rome amongst the domestics of the dethron- 
ed Queen, and confirming the faith of those who already 
held the Protestant doctrines. Perhaps his hopes soar- 
ed a little higher, and he might nourish some expecta- 
tion of a proselyte more distinguished, in the person of 
the deposed Queen. But the pertinacity with which she 
and her female attendants refused to see or listen to him, 
rendered such hope, if he nourished it, altogether abor- 
tive. 

The opportunity, therefore, of enlarging the religious 
information of Roland Graeme, and bringing him to a 
more due sense of his duties to heaven, was hailed by 
the good man as a door opened by Providence for the 
salvation of a sinner. He dreamed not, indeed, that he 
was converting a Papist ; but such was the ignorance 
v;hich Roland displayed upon some material points of 
the reformed doctrine, that Master Henderson, while 


52 


THE ABBOT. 


praising his docility to the Lady Lochleven and her grand- 
son, seldom failed to add, that his venerable brother, 
Henry Warden, must be now decayed in strength and 
in mind, since he found a catecimmen of his flock so ill- 
grounded in the principles of his belief. For this, in- 
deed, Roland Graeme thought it was unnecessary to as- 
sign the true reason, which was his having made it a 
point of honour to forget all that Henry Warden taught 
him, as soon as he was no longer compelled to repeat 
it over as a lesson acquired by rote. The lessons of 
his new instructer, if not more impressively delivered, 
were received by a more willing ear, and a more awak- 
ened understanding, and the solitude of Lochleven .Cas- 
tle was favourable to graver thoughts than the page had 
hitherto entertained. He wavered yet, indeed, as one 
who was almost persuaded ; but his attention to the 
chaplain’s instructions procured him favour even with 
the stern old dame herself; and he was once or twice, 
but under great precaution, permitted to go to the neigh- 
bouring village of Kinross, situated on the mainland, to 
execute some ordinary commission of his unfortunate 
mistress. 

For some time Roland Graeme might be considered 
as standing neuter betwixt the two parties who inhabited 
the water-girdled Tower of Lochleven ; but, as he rose 
in the opinion of the lady of the castle and her chaplain, 
he perceived, with great grief, that he lost ground in that 
of Mary and her female allies. 

He came gradually to be sensible that he was regarded 
as a spy upon their discourse, and that, instead of the 
ease with which they had formerly conversed in his pre- 
sence, without suppressing any of the natural feelings 
of anger, of sorrow, or mirth, which the chance topic of 
the moment happened to call forth, their talk was now 
guardedly restricted to the most indifferent subjects, and 
a studied reserve observed even in the mode of treating 
these. This obvious want of confidence was accompa- 
nied with a correspondent change in their personal de- 
meanour towards the unfortunate page. The Queen, 


TIIK AliliOT, 


53 


who had at first treated him with marked courtesy, now 
scarce spoke to him, save to convey some necessary com- 
mand for her service. The Lady Fleming restricted 
her notice to the most dry and distant expressions of 
civility, and Catherine Seyton became bitter in her 
pleasantries, and shy, cross, and pettish, in any intercourse 
they had together. What was yet more provoking, he 
saw, or thought he saw, marks of intelligence betwixt 
George Douglas and the beautiful Catherine Seyton ; 
and, sharpened by jealousy, he wrought himself almost 
into a certainly, that the looks which they exchanged 
conveyed matters of deep and serious import. No won- 
der, he thought, if, courted by the son of a proud and 
powerful baron, she can no longer spare a word or look 
to the poor fortuneless page. 

In a word, Roland Graeme’s situation became truly dis- 
agreeable, and his heart naturally enough rebelled 
against the injustice of this treatment, which deprived him 
of the only comfort which he had received for submitting 
to a confinement in other respects irksome. He accused 
Queen Mary and Catherine Seyton (for concerning the 
opinion of Dame Fleming he was indifferent) of incon- 
sistency, in being displeased with him on account of the 
natural consequences of an order of their own. Why 
did they send him to hear this overpowering preacher ^ 
The Abbot Arabrosius, he recollected, understood the 
weakness of their Popish cause better, when he enjoined 
him to repeat within his own mind aves, and credos, andprt- 
ters, all the while old Henry Warden preached or lectured, 
that so he might secure himself against lending even a 
momentary ear to his heretical doctrine. “ But I will 
endure this life no longer,” said he to himself manfully ; 

do they suppose I would betray my mistress because 
I see cause to doubt of her religion — that would be a 
serving, as they say, the devil for God’s sake. I will 
forth into the world — he that serves fair ladies may at 
least expect kind looks and kind words, and 1 bear not 
the mind of a gentleman, to submit to cold treatment and 
5 * VOL. II. 


64 


THE ABBOT. 


suspicion, and a life-long captivity besides. I will speak 
to George Douglas to-morrow when we go out a-fishing.” 

A sleepless night was spent in agitating this magnani- 
mous resolution, and he arose in the morning not perfect- 
ly decided in his own mind whether he should abide by 
it or not. It happened that he was summoned by the 
Queen at an unusual hour, and just as he was about to 
go out with George Douglas. He went to attend her 
commands in the garden ; but as he had his angling-rod 
in his hand, the circumstance announced his previous in- 
tention, and the Queen, turning to the Lady Fleming, 
said, “ Catherine must devise some other amusement for 
us, ma bonne amie ; our discreet page has already made 
his party for the day’s pleasure.” 

“ 1 said from the beginning,” answered the Lady Flem- 
ing, “ that your Grace ought not to rely on being favour- 
ed with the company of a youth who has so many Hu- 
guenot acquaintances ; and has the means of amusing 
himself far more agreeably than with us.” 

“ I wish,” said Catherine, her animated features red- 
dening with mortification, “ that his friends would sail 
away with him for good, and bring us in return a page 
(if such a thing can be found) faithful to his Queen and 
to his religion.” 

“ One part of your wishes may be granted, madam,” 
said Roland Graeme, unable any longer to restrain his 
sense of the treatment which he received on all sides ; and 
he was about to add, “ 1 heartily wish you a companion 
in my room, if such can be found, who is capable of en- 
during women’s caprices without going distracted.” 
Luckily, he recollected the remorse which he had felt at 
having given way to the vivacity of his temper upon a 
similar occasion ; and closing his lips, imprisoned, until 
it died on his tongue, a reproach so misbecoming the 
presence of majesty. 

“ Why do you remain there,” said the Queen, “ as if 
you were rooted to the parterre ?” 

“ I but attend your Grace’s commands,” said the page* 


THE ABBOT. 


65 


** I have none to give yon — Begone, sir !” 

As he left the garden to go to the boat, he distinctly 
heard Mary upbraid one of her attendants in these words : 
— “ You see to what you have exposed us !*’ 

This brief scene at once determined Roland Graeme’s 
resolution to quit the castle, if it were possible, and to 
impart his resolution to George Douglas without loss of 
time. That gentleman, in his usual mood of silence, sat 
in the stern of the little skiff which they used on such 
occasions, trimming his fishing-tackle, and, from time to 
time, indicating by signs to Graeme, who pulled the oars, 
which way he should row. When they were a furlong 
or two from the castle, Roland rested on the oars, and 
addressed his companion somewhat abruptly, “ 1 have 
something of importance to say to you, under your pleas- 
ure, fair sir.” 

The pensive melancholy of Douglas’s countenance at 
once gave way to the eager, keen, and startled look of 
one who expects to hear something of deep and alarm- 
ing import. 

I am wearied to the very death of this Castle of 
Lochleven,” continued Roland. 

“ Is that all said Douglas ; “ I know none of its 
inhabitants who are much better pleased with it.” 

“ Ay — but I am neither a native of the house, nor a 
prisoner in it, and so I may reasonably desire to leave it.” 

“You might desire to quit it with equal reason,” an- 
swered Douglas, “ if you were both the one and the 
other.” 

“ But,” said Roland Grseme, “ I am not only tired of 
living in Lochleven Castle, but I am determined to 
quit it.” 

“ That is a resolution more easily taken than execut- 
ed,” replied Douglas. 

“ Not if yourself, sir, and your Lady Mother, choose 
to consent,” answered the page. 

“ You mistake the matter, Roland,” said Douglas ; 
“ you will find that the consent of two other persons is 
equally essential — that of the Lady Mary your mistress. 


56 


THE AERCT. 


and that of my undo the Regent, who placed you about 
her person, and who will not think it proper that she 
should change her attendants so soon.” 

“ And must I then remain whether I will or no de- 
manded the page, somewhat appalled at a view of the 
subject, which would have occurred sooner to a person 
of more experience. 

“ At least,” said George Douglas, “ You must will to 
remain till my uncle consents to dismiss you.” 

“ Frankly,” said the page, “ and speaking to you as a 
gentleman who is incapable of betraying me, 1 will con- 
fess, that if I thought myself a prisoner here, neither 
walls nor water should confine me long.” 

“ Frankly,” said Douglas, “ 1 could not much blame 
you for the attempt ; yet, for all that, my father, or un- 
cle, or the earl, or any of my brothers, or in short any of 
the king’s lords into whose hands you fell, would in such a 
case hang you like a dog, or like a sentinel who deserts 
his post ; and I promise you that you will hardly escape 
them. But row towards Saint Serf’s island — there is a 
breeze from the west, and we shall have sport keeping to 
windward of the isle where the ripple is strongest. We 
will speak more of what you have mentioned, when we 
have had an hour’s sport.” 

Their fishing was successful, though never did two an- 
glers pursue even that silent and unsocial pleasure with 
less of verbal intercourse. 

When their time was expired, Douglas took the oars 
in his turn, and by his order Roland Graeme steered the 
boat, directing her course upon the landing-place at the 
Castle. But he also stopped in the midst of his course, 
and looking around him, said to Graeme, “ There is a thing 
which I could mention to thee, but it is so deep a secret, 
that even here, surrounded as we are by waves and skv, 
without the possibility of a listener, 1 cannot prevail on 
myself to speak it out.” 

“ Better leave it unspoken, sir,” answered Roland 
GraBme, “ if you doubt the honour of him who alone can 
hear it.” 


THE ABBOT. 


57 


“ I doubt not your honour,” replied George Douglas ; 
“ but you are young, imprudent, and changeful.” 

“ Young,” said Roland, “ 1 am, and it may be impru- 
dent — but who hath informed you that 1 am changeful ?” 

“ One that knows you, perhaps, better than you know 
yourself,” replied Douglas. 

“ 1 suppose you mean Catherine Seyton,” said the 
page, his heart rising as he spoke ; “ but she is herself 
fifty times more variable in her humour than the very 
water w^hich we are floating upon.” 

“ My young acquaintance,” said Douglas, “ I pray 
you to remember that Catherine Seyton is a lady of blood 
and birth, and must not be lightly spoken of.” 

“ Master George of Douglas,” said Graeme, “ as that 
speech seemed to be made under'the warrant of some- 
thing like a threat, I pray you to observe, that 1 value not 
the threat at the estimation of a fin of one of these dead, 
trouts ; and, moreover, I would have you to know, that 
the champion who undertakes the defence of every lady 
of blood and birth, whom men accuse of change of faith 
and of fashion, is like to have enough of work on hjs 
hands.” 

“ Go to,” said the Seneschal, but in a tone of good 
humour, “ thou art a foolish boy, unfit to deal with any 
matter more serious than the casting of a net, or the fly- 
ing of a hawk.” 

“ If your secret concern Catherine Seyton,” said the 
page, “ I care not for it, and so you may tell her if you 
will. 1 wot she can shape you opportunity to speak with 
her, as she has ere now.” 

The flush which passed over Douglas’s face, made the 
page aware that he had lighted on a truth, when he was, 
in fact, speaking at random ; and the feeling that he had 
done so, was like striking a dagger into his own heart. 
His companion, without further answer, resumed the oars, 
and pulled lustily till they arrived at the island and the 
castle. The servants received the produce of their sport, 
and the two fishers, turning from each other in silence, 
went each to his several apartment. 


58 


THE ABBOT. 


Roland Graeme had spent about an hour in grumbling 
against Catl)erine Seyton, the Queen, the Regent, and 
the whole House of Lochleven, with George Douglas at 
the head of it, when the time approaclied that his duty 
called him to attend the meal of Queen Mary. As he 
arranged his dress for this purpose, he grudged the trou- 
ble, which, on similar occasions, he used, with boyish 
foppery, to consider as one of the most important duties 
of his day ; and when lie went to take liis place behind 
the chair of the Queen, it was with an air of offended 
dignity, which could not escape her observation, and pro- 
bably appeared to her ridiculous enough, for she whisper- 
ed something in French to her ladies, at which the Lady 
Fleming laughed, and Catherine appeared half diverted 
and half disconcerted. This pleasantry, of which tlie 
subject was concealed from him, the unfortunate page 
received, of course, as a new offence, and called an ad- 
ditional degree of sullen dignity into his mien, which 
might have exposed liim to farther raillery, but that Mary 
appeared disposed to make allowance for, and compas- 
sionate his feelings. 

With the peculiar tact and delicacy which no woman 
possessed in greater perfection, she began to sooth by 
degrees the vexed spirit of her magnanimous attendant. 
The excellence of the fish which he had taken in his ex- 
pedition, the high flavour and beautiful red colour of the 
trouts, which have long given distinction to the lake, led 
her first to express her thanks to her attendant for so 
agreeable an addition to her table, especially upon ayowr 
de jeune ; and then brought on inquiries into the place 
where the fish had been taken, their size, their peculiar- 
ities, the times when they were in season, and a compar- 
ison between the Lochleven trouts and those which are 
found in the lakes and rivers of the south of Scotland. 
The ill humour of Roland Graeme was never of an ob- 
stinate character. It rolled away like mist before the sun, 
and he was easily engaged in a keen and animated dis- 
sertation about Lochleven trout, and sea trout, and river 
trout, and bull trout, and char, which never rise to a fly, 


THE ABBOT. 


69 


anti par, which some suppose infant salmon, and herlings, 
which frequent the Nilh, and vendisses, which are only- 
found in tlie Castle-Loch of Lochmaben ; and he was 
hurrying on with the eager impetuosity and enthusiasm 
of a young sportsman, when he observed that the smile 
with which tlie Queen at first listened to him died lan- 
guidly away, and that, in spite of her efforts to suppress 
them, tears rose to her eyes. He stopped suddenly short, 
and, distressed in his turn, asked, “ Jf he had had the 
misfortune unwittingly to give displeasure to her Grace 

“ No, my poor boy,” replied the Queen ; “ but as you 
numbered up the lakes and rivers of my kingdom, imag- 
ination cheated me, as it w'ill do, and snatched me from 
these dreary walls, away to the romantic streams of Niths- 
dale, and the royal towers of Lochmaben. O land, which 
my fathers have so long ruled ! of the pleasures which 
you extend so freely, your Queen is now deprived, and 
the poorest beggar, who may wander free from one land- 
ward town to another, would scorn to change fates with 
Mary of Scotland !” 

“ Vour Highness,” said the Lady Fleming, “ will do. 
well to withdraw.” 

“ Come with me then, Fleming,” said the Queen ; “ I 
would not burden hearts so young as these are, with the 
sight of my sorrows.” 

She accompanied these words with a look of melan- 
choly compassion towards Roland and Catherine, who 
were now left alone together in the apartment. 

The page found his situatibn not a little embarrassing, 
for, as every reader has experienced who may have 
chanced to be in such a situation, it is extremely difficult 
to maintain the full dignity of an offended person in the 
presence of a beautiful girl, whatever reason we may 
liave for being angry with her. Catherine Seyton, on her 
part, sat still like a lingering ghost, which, conscious of 
the awe which its presence imposes, is charitably dis- 
posed to give the poor confused mortal whom it visits, 
time to recover his senses, and comply with the grand rule 
of demonology by speaking first. But as Roland seem- 


60 


THE AEBOT. 


ed in no hurry to avail himself of her condescension, 
she carried it a step farther, and herself opened the con- 
versation. 

“ I pray you, fair sir, if it may be permitted me to 
disturb your august reverie by a question so simple, — 
what may have become of your rosary 

“ It is lost, madam — lost sometime since,” said Roland, 
partly embarrassed and partly indignant. 

“ And may 1 ask farther, sir,” said Catherine, “ why 
you have not replaced it with another ? — I have half a 
mind,” she said, taking from her pocket a string of ebony 
beads adorned with gold, “ to bestow one upon you, to 
keep for my sake, just to remind you of former ac- 
quaintance.” 

Tliere was a little tremulous accent in the tone with 
which these words were delivered, which at once put to 
flight Roland Grasme’s resentment, and brought him to 
Catherine’s side ; but she instantly resumed the bold and 
firm accent which was more familiar to her. “ I did not 
bid you,” she said, “ come and sit so close by me ; for 
the acquaintance that I spoke of, has been stiff and cold, 
dead and buried, for this many a day.” 

“ Now Heaven forbid !” said the page ; “ it has only 
slept ; and now that you desire it should awake, fair 
Catherine, believe me that a pledge of your returning 
favour” 

“ Nay, nay,” said Catherine, withholding the rosary, 
towards which, as he spoke, he extended his hand, “ I 
have changed my mind on better reflection. What 
should a heretic do with these holy beads, that have been 
blessed by the Father of the church himself.^” 

Roland winced grievously, for he saw plainly which 
way the discourse was now likely to tend, and felt that it 
must at all events be embarrassing. “ Nay, but,” he 
said, “ it was as a token of your own regard that you 
offered them.” 

“ Ay, fair sir, but that regard attended the faithful sub- 
ject, the loyal and pious Catholic, the individual who was 
so solemnly devoted at the same time with myself to the 


THE ABBOT. 


61 


same grand duly ; which, you must now understand, was 
to serve the church and Queen. To such a person, 
if you ever heard of him, was my regard due, and not 
to him who associates with heretics, and is about to be- 
come a renegado.” 

“ I should scarce believe, fair mistress,” said Roland, 
indignantly, “ that the vane of your favour turned only 
to a Catholic wind, considering that it points so plainly 
to George Douglas, who, I think, is both kingsman and 
Protestant.” 

“ Think better of George Douglas,” said Catherine, 

“than to believe” and then checking herself, as if 

she had spoken too much, she went on, “ I assure you, 
fair Master Roland, that all who wish you well are sorry 
for you.” 

“ Their number is very few, I believe,” answered Ro- 
. land, “ and their sorrow, if they feel any, not deeper 
than ten minutes time will cure.” 

“ They are more numerous, and think more deeply con- 
cerning you, than you seem to be aware,” answered Cathe- 
rine. “ But perhaps they think wrong — You are the best 
judge in your own afiliirs ; and if you prefer gold and 
church-lands to honour and loyalty, and the faith of your 
fathers, why should you be hanipered in conscience more 
than others .^” 

“ May heaven bear witness for me,” said Roland, 
“ that if I entertain any difference of opinion — that is, if 
I nourish any doubts in point of religion, they have been 
adopted on the conviction of my own mind, and the sug- 
gestion of my own conscience !” 

“ Ay, ay, your conscience — your conscience !” re- 
peated she with satiric emphasis ; “ your conscience is 
the scape-goat ; 1 warrant it an able one — it will bear 
the burden of one of the best manors of the Abbey of 
Saint Mary of Kennaquhair, lately forfeited to our no- 
ble Lord the King, by the Abbot and community thereof, 
for the high crime of fidelity to their religious vows, and 
now to be granted by the High and Mighty Traitor, and 
G VOL. Tf. 


62 


THE ABBOT. 


SO forth, James, Earl of Murray, to the good squire of 
dames, Roland Grasme, for his loyal and faithful service 
as under-espial, and deputy-turnkey, for securing the 
person of his lawful sovereign. Queen Mary.” 

“ You misconstrue me cruelly,” said the page ; “ yes, 
Catherine, most cruelly — God knows I would protect this 
poor lady at the risk of my life, or with my life ; but 
what can I do — what can any one do for her 

“ Much may be done — enough may be done — all may 
be done — if men will be but true and honourable, as 
Scottish men were in the days of Bruce and Wallace. 
O, Roland, from what an enterprize you are now with- 
drawing your heart and hand, through mere fickleness 
and coldness of spirit !” 

“ How can 1 withdraw,” said Roland, “ from an en- 
terprize which has never been communicated to me ? — 
Has the Queen, or have you, or has any one communi- 
cated with me upon anything for her service which I have 
refused f Or have you not, all of you, held me atsuch a 
distance from your counsels, as if 1 were the most faith- 
less spy since the days of Ganelon 

“ And wdio,” said Catherine Seyton, “ would trust the 
sworn friend, and pupil, and companion, of the heretic 
preacher Henderson ? ay — a proper tutor you have cho- 
sen, instead of the excellent Arabrosius, wdio is now turn- 
ed out of house and homestead, if indeed he is not lan- 
guishing in a dungeon, for withstanding the tyranny of 
Morton, to whose brother the temporalities of that noble 
house of God have been gifted away by the Regent.” 

Is it possible ?” said the page ; “ and is the excel- 
lent Father Ambrose in such distress ?” 

“ He would account the news of your falling away 
from the faitli of your fathers,” answered Catherine, 
“ a w'orse mishap than aught that tyranny can inflict on 
himself.” 

“ But why,” said Roland, very much moved, “ why 
should you suppose that — that — that it is with me as you 
say 

“ Do you yourself deny it ?” replied Catherine ; “ do 
you not admit tliat you ha^e drank the poison wliich you 


THE AIJBOT. 


63 


should have dashed from your lips ? — Do you deny that 
it now ferments in your veins, if it has not altogether cor- 
rupted the springs of life ? — Do you deny that you have 
your douhts, as you proudly term them, respecting what 
popes and councils have declared it unlawful to doubt of i* 
— Is not your faith wavering, if not overthrown ? — Does 
not the heretic preacher boast his conquest ? — Does not 
the heretic woman of this prison-house hold up thy ex- 
ample to others f — Do not the Queen and the Lady 
Fleming believe in thy falling away f — And is there «ny, 
except one — yes, T will speak it out, and think as lightly 
as you please of'rny good will — is there one except my- 
self that holds even a lingering hope that you may yet 
prove what we once all believed of you f” 

“ I know not,” said our poor page, much embarrassed 
by the view which was thus presented to him of the con- 
duct he was expected to pursue, and by a person in 
whom he was not the less interested that so long a resi- 
dence in Lochleven Castle, with no object so likely to at- 
tract his undivided attention, had taken place since they 
had first met, — “ I know not what you expect of me, or fear 
from me. I was sent hither to attend Queen Mary, and to 
her I acknowledge the duty of a servant through life and 
death. If any one had expected service of another kind, 
I wtis not the party to render it. I neither avmw nor dis- 
claim the doctrines of the reformed church. — Will you 
have the truth ? — It seems to me that the profligacy of the 
Catholic clergy has brought this judgment on their own 
heads, and, for aught I know, it may be for their refor- 
mation. But, for betraying this unhappy Queen, God 
knows I am guiltless of the thought. Did 1 even believe 
worse of her than as her servant I wish — as her subject 
I dare to do — I would not betray her — far from it — I 
would aid her in aught which could tend to a fair trial of 
her cause.” 

“ Enough ! enough !” answered Catherine, clasping 
her hands together ; “ then thou wilt not desert us if any 
means are presented, by which, placing our Royal Mis* 


64 


THE ABBOT. 


tress at freedom, this case may be honestly tried betwixt 
her and her rebellious subjects?” 

Nay — but fair Catherine,” replied the page, “ hear 
but what the Lord of Murray said when he sent me 
hither.” 

“ Hear but what the devil said,” replied the maiden ; 
‘‘ rather than what a false subject, a false brother, a false 
counsellor, a false friend said ,! A man raised from a 
petty pensioner on the crown’s bounty, to be the coun- 
sellor of majesty, and the prime distributor of the boun- 
ties of the state ; — one with whom rank, fortune, title, 
consequence, and power, all grew up like a mushroom, 
by the mere warm good-will of the sister, whom, in re- 
quital, he bath mewed up in this place of melancholy 
seclusion — whom, in further requital, he has deposed, 
and whom, if he dared, he would murder!” 

“ I think not so ill of the Earl of Murray,” said Ro- 
land Graeme; and sooth to speak,” he added, with a 
smile, “ it would require some bribe to make me em- 
brace, with firm and desperate resolution, either one side 
or the other.” 

“ Nay, if that is all,” replied Catherine Seyton, in a 
tone of enthusiasm, “ you shall be guerdoned with pray- 
ers from oppressed subjects — from dispossessed clergy — 
from insulted nobles — with immortal praise by future ages 
— with eager gratitude by the present — with fame on 
earth, and with felicity in heaven ! Your country will 
thank you — your Queen will be debtor to you — you will 
achieve at once the highest from the lowest degree in 
chivalry — all men will honour, all women will love you — 
and I, sworn with you so early to the accomplishment of 
Queen Mary’s freedom, will — yes, 1 will love you better 
than — ever sister loved brother I” 

“ Say on — say on !” whispered Roland, kneeling on 
one knee, and taking her hand, which, in the warmth oi 
exhortation, Catherine held towards him. 

“ Nay,” said she, pausing, “ I have already said too 
much — far too inuch if 1 prevail not with you — far too 
little if I do. But I prevail,” she continued, seeing that 


THE ABBOT. 


65 


the countenance of the youth she addressed returned the 
enthusiasm of her own — “ I prev'^ail ; or rather the good 
cause prevails through its own strength — thus I devote 
thee to it.” And as she spoke, she approached her finger 
to the brow of the astonished youth ; and, without touch- 
ing it, signed the cross over his forehead — stooped her 
face towards him, and seemed to kiss the empty space 
in which she had traced the symbol ; then starting up 
and extricating herself from his grasp, darted into the 
Queen’s apartment. 

Roland Graeme remained as the enthusiastic maiden 
had left him, kneeling on one knee, with breath withheld, 
and with eyes fixed upon the space which the fairy form 
of Catherine Seyton had so lately occupied. If his 
thoughts were not of unmixed delight, they at least par- 
took of that thrilling and intoxicating, though mingled 
sense of pain and pleasure, the most overpowering which 
life offers in its blended cup. He rose and retired slow- 
ly ; and although the chaplain Mr. Henderson preached 
on that evening his best sermon against the errors of po- 
pery, I would not engage that he was followed accurate- 
ly through the train of his reasoning by the young pros- 
elyte, with a view to whose especial benefit he had han- 
dled the subject. 


CHAPTER V. 

And when love’s torch hath set the heart in flame, 

Comes Seignor Reason, with his saws and cautions. 

Giving such aid as the old gre_y-beard Sexton, 

Who from the church-vault dragsjils crazy engine. 

To ply its dribbling inetTectual streamlet 

Against a conflagration. Old Play. 

In a musing mood, Roland Graeme upon the ensuing 
morning betook himself to the battlements of the castle, 

6* VOL. II. 


66 


THE ABBOT. 


as a spot where he might indulge the course of his thick- 
coming fancies with least chance of interruption. But 
his place of retirement was in the present case ill chosen, 
for he was presently joined by Mr. Elias Henderson. 

“ I sought you, young man,” said the preacher, “ hav- 
ing to speak of sometliing which concerns you nearly.” 

The page had no pretence for avoiding the conference 
which the chaplain thus offered, though he felt that it 
might prove an embarrassing one. 

“ In teaching thee, as far as iny feeble knowledge hath 
permitted, thy duty towards God,” said the chaplain, 

“ there are paj ticulars of your duty towards man, upon 
which 1 was unwilling long or much to insist. You are 
here in the service of a lady, honourable as touching her 
birth, deserving of all compassion as respects her misfor- 
tunes, and garnished with even but too many of those 
outward qualities which win men’s regard and affection. 
Have you ever considered your regard to this Lady Mary 
of Scotland in its true light and bearing F” 

“ I trust, reverend sir,” replied Roland Graeme, “ that 
I am well aware of the duties a servant in my condition 
owes to his Royal Mistress, especially in her lowly and 
distressed state.” 

“ True,” answei^d the preacher, “ but it is even that ' 
honest feeling which may, in the Lady Mary’s case, carry 
thee into great crime and treachery.” 

“ How so, reverend sir replied the page ; “ 1 pro- 
fess 1 understand you not.” 

“ I speak to you not of the crimes of this ill-advised 
lady,” said the preacher ; “they are not subjects for the 
ears of her sworn servant. But it is enough to say, that 
this unhappy person hath rejected more offers of grace, 
more hopes of glory, than ever were held out to earthly 
princes ; and that she is now, her day of favour being 
passed, sequestered in this lonely castle, for the common 
weal of the people of Scotland, and it may be for the 
benefit of her own soul.” 

“ Reverend sir,” said Roland, somewhat impatiently, 

“ I am but too well aware that my unfortunate mistress 


THE ABBOT. 


67 


IS imprisoned, since 1 have the misfortune to share in her 
restraint myself — of which, to speak sooth, I am hearti- 
ly weary.” 

“ It is even of that which I am about to speak,” said 
the chaplain mildly ; “ but first, my good Roland, look 
forth on the pleasant prospect of yonder cultivated plain. 
You see, where the smoke arises, yonder village standing 
half hidden by the trees, and you know it to be the dwel- 
ling-place of peace and industry. From space to space, 
each by the side of its own stream, you see the grey 
towers of Barons, with cottages interspersed ; and you 
know that they also, with their household, are now living 
in unity ; the lance hung up on the wall, and the sword 
resting in its sheath. — You see, too, more than one fair 
church, where the pure waters of life are offered to the 
thirsty, and where the hungry are refreshed with spiritual 
food. — What would he deserve, who should bring fire and 
slaughter into so fair and happy a scene — who should 
bare the swords of the gentry and turn them against each 
other — who should give tower and cottage to the flames, 
and* slake the embers with the blood of the indwellers ? 
— What would he deserve who should lift up again that 
ancient Dagon of Superstition, whom the worthies of the 
time have beaten down, and who should once more make 
the churches of God the high places of Baal 

“ You have limned a frightful picture, reverend sir,” 
said Roland Graeme ; “ yet I guess not whom you would 
charge with the purpose of effecting a change so horrible.” 

“ God forbid,” replied the preacher, “ that 1 should 
say to thee, thou art the man. — Yet beware, Roland 
Graeme, that thou, in serving thy Mistress, hold fast the 
still higher service which thou owest to the peace of thy 
country, and the prosperity of her inhabitants ; else, Ro- 
land Graeme, thou mayest be the very man upon whose 
head will fall the curses and assured punishment due to 
such work. If thou art won by the song of these syrens 
to aid that unhappy lady’s escape from this place of pen- 
itence and security, it is over with the peace of Scotland’s 
cottages, and with the prosperity of her palaces — and 


68 


THE ABBOT. 


the babe unborn shall curse the name of the man, who 
gave inlet to the disorder which will follow the war be- 
twixt the mother and the son.” 

“I know of no such plan, reverend sir,” answered the 
page, “ and therefore can aid none such. My duty to- 
wards the Queen has been simply that of an attendant ; 
it is a task of which, at times, I would willingly have 
been freed, nevertheless 

“ It is to prepare thee for the enjoyment of something 
more of liberty,” said the preacher, “ that I have en- 
deavoured to impress upon you the deep responsibility 
under which your office must be discharged. George 
Douglas hath told the Lady Lochleven that you are weary 
of this service, and my intercession hath partly deter- 
mined her good ladyship, that, as your discharge cannot 
be granted, you shall, instead, be employed in certain 
commissions on the main-land, which have hitherto been 
discharged by other persons of confidence. Wherefore, 
come with me to the lady, for even to-day such duty will 
be imposed on you.” 

“ I trust you will hold me excused, reverend sirj” said 
the page, who felt that an increase of confidence on the 
part of the lady of the castle and her family would 
render his situation in a moral view doubly embarrassing ; 
“ one cannot serve two masters — and I much fear that 
my mistress will not hold me excused for taking employ- 
ment under another.” 

“ Fear not that,” said the preacher, “ her consent shall 
be asked and obtained. I fear she will yield it but too 
easily, as hoping to avail herself of your agency to main- 
tain correspondence with her friends, as those falsely call 
themselves, who would make her name the watch-word 
for civil war.” 

“ And thus,” said the page, “I shall be exposed to sus- 
picion on all sides ; for my mistress will consider me as 
a spy placed on her by her enemies, seeing me so far 
trusted by them ; and the Lady Lochleven will never 
cease to suspect the possibility of my betraying her, be- 


THE ABBOT. 


69 


cause circumstances put it into my power to do so — 1 
would rather remain as I am.” 

There followed a pause of one or two minutes, during 
which Henderson looked steadily in Roland’s counte- 
nance, as if desirous to ascertain whether there was not 
more in the answer than the precise words seemed to im- 
ply. He failed in this point, however ; for Roland, bred 
a page from childhood, knew how to assume a sullen pet- 
tish cast of countenance, well enough calculated to hide 
all internal emotions. 

“ I understand thee not, Roland,” said the preacher, 
“ or rather thou thinkest on this matter more deeply than 
I apprehended to be in thy nature. IMethought the de- 
light of going on shore with thy bow, or thy gun, or thy 
angling-rod, would have borne away all other feelings.” 

“ And so it would,” replied Roland, who perceived 
the danger of suffering Henderson’s half-raised suspi- 
cions to become fully awake, — “ I would have thought of 
nothing but the gun and the oar, and the wild water-fowl 
that tempt me by sailing among the sedges yonder so far 
out of flight-shot, had you not spoken of my going on 
shore as what was to occasion burning of town and tower, 
the downfall of the evangele, and the upsetting of the 
mass.” 

“ Follow me, then,” said Henderson, “ and we will 
seek the Lady Lochleven.” 

They found her at breakfast with her grandson George 
Douglas — “ Peace be with your ladyship!” said the 
preacher, bowing to his patroness, “ Roland Graeme 
awaits your order.” 

“ Young man,” said the lady, “ our chaplain hath 
w^^rranted for thy fidelity, and we are determined to give 
you certain errands to do for us in our town of Kinross.” 

“ Not by my advice,” said Douglas coldly. 

' I said not that is was,” answered the lady, some- 
thing sharply. “ The mother of thy father may, 1 should 
think, be old enough to judge for herself in a matter so 
simple. — Thou wilt take the skiff, Roland, and two of 
my people, whom Dryfesdale or Randal wnll order out, 


70 


THE ABBOT. 


and fetch off certain stuff of plate and hangings, which 
should last night be lodged at Kinross by the wains from 
Edinburgh.” 

“ And give this packet,” said George Douglas, to a 
servant of ours, whom you will find in waiting there. — It 
is the report to my father,” he added, looking towards 
his grandmother, who acquiesced by bending her head. 

“ I have already mentioned to Master Henderson,” 
said Roland Grfeme, “ that, as my duty requires my at- 
tendance on the Queen, her Grace’s permission for my 
journey ought to be obtained before I can undertake your 
commission.” 

“ Look to it my son,” said the old lady, the scru- 
ple of the youth is honourable.” 

“ Craving your pardon, madam, I have no wish to 
force myself on her presence thus early,” said Douglas, 
in an indifferent tone ; “ it might displease her, and were 
no way agreeable to me.” 

“ And 1,” said the Lady Lochleven, “ although her 
temper hath been more gentle of late, have no will to 
undergo, without necessity, the rancour of her wit.” 

“ Under your permission, madam,” said the chaplain, 
‘‘ I will myself render your request to the Queen. Dur- 
ing my long residence in this house she hath not deigned 
to see me in private, or to hear my doctrine ; yet so may 
heaven prosper my labours, as love for her soul, and de- 
sire to bring her into the right path, was my cliiefmotive 
for coming hither.” 

“ Take care. Master Henderson,” said Douglas, in a 
tone which seemed almost sarcastic, “lest you rush has- 
tily on an adventure to which you have no vocation — you 
are learned, and know the adage, JVe accesseris in consili- 
um nisi vocatus . — Who hath required this at your hand .^” 

“ The Master to whose service I am called,” answer- 
ed the preacher, looking upward, “ He who hath com- 
manded me to be earnest in season and out of season.” 

“ Your acquaintance hath not been much, I think, with 
courts of princes,” continued the young esquire. 


THE ABBOT. 


71 


“ No, sir,” replied Henderson, ‘‘ but, like rny Mas- 
ter Knox, I see nothing frightful in the fair face of a 
pretty lady.” 

“ My son,” said the Lady of Lochleven, “ quench 
not the good man’s zeal — let him do the errand to this 
unhappy princess.” 

“ With more willingness than I would do it myself,” 
said George Douglas. Yet something in his manner ap- 
peared to contradict his words. 

The minister went accordingly, followed by Roland 
Graeme, and, demanding an audience of the imprisoned 
princess, was admitted. He found her with her ladies en- 
gaged in the daily task of embroidery. The Queen re- 
ceived him with that courtesy, which, in ordinary cases, 
she used towards all who approached her, and the clergy- 
man, in opening his commission, was obviously somewhat 
more embarrassed than he had expected to be. — “ The 
good Lady of Lochleven — may it please your Grace” 

He made a short pause, during which Mary said, with 
a smile, “ my grace would, in truth, be well pleased, 
were the Lady Lochleven our good Lady — But go on — 
what is the will of the good Lady of Lochleven 

“ She desires, madam,” said the chaplain, “that your 
grace will permit this young gentleman, your page, Ro- 
land Graeme, to pass to Kinross to look after some house- 
hold stuff and hangings, sent hither for the better fur- 
nishing your Grace’s apartments.” 

“ The Lady of Lochleven,” said the Queen, “ uses 
needless ceremony, in requesting our permission for that 
which stands within her own pleasure. We well know 
that this young gentleman’s attendance on us had not 
been so long permitted, were he not thought to be more 
at the command of that good lady than at ours. — But we 
cheerfully yield consent that he shall go on her errand — 
with our will we would doom no living creature to the 
captivity which we ourselves must suffer.” 

“ Ay, madam,” answered the preacher, “ and it is 
doubtless natural for humanity to quarrel with its prison- 
house. Yet there have been those, who have found that 


72 


THE ABBOT. 


time spent in the house of temporal captivity, may be so 
employed as to redeem us from spiritual slavery.” 

“ I apprehend your meaning, sir,” replied tiie Queen, 
“ but 1 have heard your apostle — 1 have heard Master 
John Knox ; and were 1 to be perverted, I would wil- 
lingly resign to the ablest and most powerful of heresi- 
archs the poor honour he might acquire by overcoming 
my faith and my hope.” 

“ Madam,” said the preacher, “ it is not to the tal- 
ents or skill of the husbandman that God gives the in- 
crease — the words which were offered in vain by him 
whom you justly call our apostle, during the bustle and 
gaiety of a court, may yet find better acceptance during 
the leisure for reflection which this place affords. God 
knows. Lady, that I speak in singleness of iieart, as one 
who would as soon compare himself to the immortal 
angels, as to the holy man whom you have named. Yet 
would you but condescend to apply to their noblest use, 
those talents and that learning which all allow you to be 
possessed of — would you afford us but the slightest hope 
that you would hear and regard what can he urged 
against the blinded superstition and idolatry in which you 
W’ere brought up, sure am I, that the most powerfully gift- 
ed of my brethren, that even John Knox himself, would 
hasten hither, and account the rescue of your single soul 
from the nets of Romish error” 

“ I am obliged to you and to them for their charity,” 
said Mary ; “ but as I have at present but one presence- 
chamber, 1 will reluctantly see it converted into a Hugue- 
not synod.” 

“ At least, madam, be not thus obstinately blinded in 
your errors ! Hear one who has hungered and thirsted, 
watched and prayed, to undertake the good work of 
your conversion, and who would be content to die the 
instant that a work so advantageous for yourself and so 
beneficial to Scotland were accomplished — Yes, Lady, 
could I but shake the remaining pillar of the lieathen 
temple in this land — and that permit me to term your 


THE ABBOT. 


73 


faith in the delusions of Rome — I could be content to 
die overwhelmed in the ruins!” 

“ I will not insult your zeal, sir,” replied Mary, “ by 
saying you are more likely to make sport for the Philis- 
tines than to overwhelm them — your charity claims my 
thanks, for it is warmly expressed and may be truly pur- 
posed — But believe as well of me as I am willing to do 
of you, and think that I may be as anxious to recall you 
to the ancient and only road, as you are to teach me 
your new by-ways to Paradise.” 

“ Then, madam, if such be your generous purpose,” 
said Henderson, eagerly,- “ what hinders that we should 
dedicate some part of that time, unhappily now too much 
at your Grace’s disposal, to discuss a question so weigh- 
ty ^ You, by report of all men, are both learned and 
witty, and I, though without such advantages, am strong in 
my cause as in a tower of defence. Why should we not 
spend some space in endeavouring to discover which of 
us hath the wrong side in this important matter 

“ Nay,” said Queen Mary, “ I never alleged my 
force was strong enough to accept of a combat en champ 
clos, with a scholar and a polemic. Besides, the match 
is not equal. You, sir, might retire when you felt the 
battle go against you, while 1 am tied to the stake, and 
have no permission to say the debate wearies me. 1 
would be alone.” 

She curtsied low to him as she uttered these words ; 
and Henderson, whose zeal was indeed ardent, but did 
not extend to the neglect of delicacy, bowed in return, 
and prepared to withdraw. 

“ I would,” he said, “ that my earnest wish, my most 
zealous prayer, could procure to your Grace any bless- 
ing or comfort, but especially that in which alone bless- 
ing or comfort is, as easily as the slightest intimation of 
your wish will remove me from your presence.” 

He was in the act of departing, when Mary said to 
him, with much courtesy, “ Do me no injury in your 
thoughts, good sir ; it may be, that if my time here be 
7 VOL. II. 


74 


THE ABBOT. 


protracted longer — as surely I hope it will not, trusting 
that either my rebel subjects will repent of their disloy- 
alty, or that iny faithful lieges will obtain the upper hand 
— but if my time be here protracted, it may be I shall 
have no displeasure in hearing one who seems so reason- 
able and compassionate as yourself, and 1 may hazard 
your contempt by endeavouring to recollect and repeat 
the reasons which schoolmen and councils give for the 
faith that is in me, — although J fear that, God help me ! 
my Latin has deserted me with my other possessions. 
This must, however, be for another day. Meanwhile, 
sir, let the Lady of Lochleven employ my page as she 
lists — 1 will not afford suspicion by speaking a word to 
him before he goes. — Roland Grseme, my friend, lose 
not an opportunity of amusing thyself — dance, sing, run, 
and leap — all may be done merrily on the main land ; 
but he must have more than quicksilver in his veins who 
would frolic here.” 

Alas ! madam,” said the preacher, “ to what is it 
you exhort the youth, while time passes, and eternity 
summons ! Can our salvation be insured by idle mirth, 
or our good work wrought out without fear and trem-. 
bling ?” 

“ 1 cannot fear or tremble,” replied the Queen ; “ to 
Mary Stuart such emotions are unknown. But, if weep- 
ing and sorrow on my part will atone for the boy’s enjoy- 
ing an hour of boyish pleasure, be assured the penance 
shall be duly paid.” 

“ Nay, but, gracious lady,” said the preacher, “ in this 
you greatly err ; — our tears and our sorrows are all too 
little for our own faults and follies, nor can we transfer 
them, as your church falsely teaches, to the benefit of 
others.” 

“ May I pray you, sir,” answered the Queen, “ with 
as little offence as such a prayer may import, to trans- 
fer yourself elsewhere ? We are sick at heart, and may 
not now be disturbed with further controversy — and 
thou, Roland, take this little purse ; (then turning to the 
divine, she said, showing its contents,) Look, reverend 


THE ABBOT. 


75 


sir — it contains only these two or three gold testoons, a 
coin which, though bearing my own poor features, 1 have 
ever found more active against me than on my side, just 
as my subjects take arms against me, with my own name 
for their summons and signal. — Take this purse, that 
thou mayest want no means of amusement. Fail not — 
fail not to bring me back new^s from Kinross, only let it 
be such as, without suspicion or offence, may be told in 
the presence of this reverend gentleman, or of the good 
Lady Lochleven herself.” 

The last hint was too irresistible to be withstood ; and 
Henderson withdrew, half mortified, half pleased, with 
his reception ; for Mary, from long habit, and the address 
which was natural to her, had learned, in an extraordi- 
nary degree, the art of evading discourse which was dis- 
agreeable to her feelings or prejudices, without affronting 
those by whom it was proffered. 

Roland Graeme retired with the chaplain, at a signal 
from his lady ; but it did not escape him, that as he left 
the room, stepping backwards, and making the deep 
obeisance due to royalty, Catherine Seyton held up her 
slender f6re-finger, with a gesture which he alone could 
witness, and which seemed to say, “ Remember what 
has passed betwixt us.” 

The young page had now his last charge from the Lady 
of Lochleven. “ There are revels,” she said, “ this 
day at the village — my son’s authority is, as yet, unable 
to prevent these continued w^orkings of the ancient leav- 
en of folly which the Romish priests have kneaded into 
the very souls of the Scottish peasantry. I do not com- 
mand thee to abstain from them — that would be only to 
lay a snare for thy folly, or to teach thee falsehood ; but 
enjoy these vanities with moderation, and mark them as 
something thou must soon learn to renounce and contemn. 
Our chamberlain at Kinross, Luke Lundin, — Doctor, as 
he foolishly calleth himself, — will acquaint thee what is 
to be done in the matter about which thou goest. Re- 
member thou art trusted— show thyself, therefore, wor 
thy of trust.” 


76 


THE ABBOT. 


When we recollect that Roland Graeme was not yet 
nineteen, and that he had spent his whole life in the soli- 
tary Castle of Avenel, excepting the few hours he had 
passed in Edinburgh, and his late residence at Loch- 
leven, (the latter period having very little served to en- 
large his acquaintance with the gay world,) we cannot 
wonder that his heart beat high with hope and curiosity, 
at the prospect of partaking the sport even of a country 
wake. He hastened to his little cabin, and turned over 
the wardrobe with which (in every respect becoming his 
station) he had been supplied from Edinburgh, probably 
by order of the Earl of Murray. By the Queen’s com- 
mand he had hitherto waited upon her in mourning, or at 
least in sad-coloured raiment. Her condition, she said, 
admitted of nothing more gay. But now he selected 
the gayest dress his wardrobe afforded ; composed of 
scarlet, slashed with black satin, the royal colours of 
Scotland — combed his long curled hair — disposed his 
chain and medal round a bever hat of the newest block ; 
and with the gay falchion which had reached him in so 
mysterious a manner, hung by his side in an embroidered 
belt, his apparel, added to his natural frank mien and hand- 
some figure, formed a most commendable and pleas- 
ing specimen of the young gallant of the period. He 
sought to make his parting reverence to the Queen and 
her ladies, but old Dryfesdale huiried him to the boat. 

“ We will have no private audiences,” he said, “ my 
master; since you are to be trusted with somewhat, we 
will try at least to save thee from the temptation of op- 
portunity. God help thee, child,” he added, with a 
glance of contempt at his gay clothes, “ an the bear- 
ward be yonder from Saint Andrews, have a care thou 
go not near him.” 

“ And wherefore, I pray you .^” said Roland. 

“Lest he take tliee for one of his runaway jack-an- 
apes,” answered the steward, smiling sourly. 

“ I wear not my clothes at thy cost,” said Roland in- 
dignantly. 


THE ABBOT. 


77 


“ Nor at thine own either, my son,’’ replied the stew- 
ard, “ else would thy garb more nearly resemble thy 
merit and thy station.” 

Roland Graeme suppressed with difficulty the repartee 
which arose to his lips, and, wrapping his scarlet man- 
tle around him, threw himself into the boat, which two 
rowers, themselves urged by curiosity to see the revels, 
pulled stoutly towards the west end of the lake. As they 
put off, Roland thought he could discover the face of 
Catherine Seylon, though carefully withdrawn from ob- 
servation, peeping from a loophole to view his departure. 
He pulled off his hat, and held it up as a token that he 
saw and wished her adieu. A white kerchief waved for 
a second across the window, and for the rest of the lit- 
tle voyage, the thoughts of Catherine Seyton disputed 
ground in his breast with the expectations excited by the 
approaching revel. As they drew nearer and nearer the 
shore, the sounds of mirth and music, the laugh, the 
halloo, and the shout, came thicker upon the ear, and in 
a trice the boat was moored, and Roland Graeme hasten- 
ed in quest of the chamberlain, that, being informed what 
lime he had at his own disposal, he might lay it out to 
the best advantage. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Room for the master of the ring, ye swains, 

Divide your crowded ranks — before him march 
The rural minstrelsy, the rattling drum. 

The clamorous war-pipe, and far-echoing horn. 

Rural Sports. — Somerville. 

No long space intervened ere Roland Graeme was 
able to discover among the crowd of revellers, who 
gambolled upon the open space which extends betwixt 
the village and the lake, a person of so great importance 
7 * VOL. II. 


78 


THE ABBOT. 


as Doctor Luke Lundin, upon whom devolved officially 
the charge of representing the lord of the land, and who 
was attended for support of hi§ authority by a piper, a 
drummer, and four sturdy clowns armed with rusty hal- 
berts, garnished with party-coloured ribands, myrmi- 
dons, who, early as the day was, had already broken 
more than one head in the awful names of the Laird of 
Lochleven and his chamberlain.^ 

As soon as this dignitary was informed that the castle 
skiff had arrived with a gallant, dressed like a lord’s son 
at the least, who desired presently to speak to him, 
he adjusted his ruff and his black coat, turned round his 
girdle till the garnished hilt of his long rapier became 
visible, and walked with due solemnity towards the beach. 
Solemn indeed he was entitled to be, even on less impor- 
tant occasions, for he had been bred to the venerable study 
of medicine, as those acquainted with the science very 
soon discovered from the aphorisms which ornamented 
his discourse. His success had not been equal to his 
pretensions ; but as he was a native of the neighbouring 
kingdom of Fife, and bore distant relation to, or depend- 
ence upon, the ancient family of Lundin of that ilk, who 
were bound in close friendship with the house of Loch- 
leven, he had, through their interest, got planted com- 
fortably enough in his present station upon the banks of 
that beautiful lake. The profits of his chamberlainship 
being moderate, especially in those unsettled times, he 
had eked it out a little with some practice in his original 
profession ; and it was said that the inhabitants of the 
village and barony of Kinross, were not more effectually 
thirled (which may be translated enthralled) to the bar- 
on’s mill, than they were to the medical monopoly of the 
chamberlain. Wo betide the family of the rich boor, 
who presumed to depart this life without a passport from 
Doctor Luke Lundin ! for if his representatives had 
aught to settle wdth the baron, as it seldom happened 
otherwise, they were sure to find a cold friend in the 
chamberlain. He was considerate enough, however, 
gratuitously to help the poor out of their ailments, '^and 


THE ABBOT. 


79 


sometimes out of all their other distresses at the same 
time. . 

Formal, in a double proportion, both as a physician 
and as a person in office, and proud of the scraps of 
learning which rendered his language almost universally 
unintelligible. Doctor Luke Lundin approached the beach, 
and hailed the page as he advanced towards him. — 
“ The freshness of the morning upon you, fair sir — You 
are sent, 1 warrant me, to see if we observe here the 
regimen which her good ladyship hath prescribed, for 
eschewing all superstitious ceremonies and idle anilities 
in these our revels. I am aware that her good ladyship 
would willingly have altogether abolished and abrogated 
them — But as I had the honour to quote to her frotn the 
works of the learned Hercules of Saxony, omnis curatio 
est vel canonica vel coac^a,— that is, fair sir, (for silk and 
velvet have seldom their Latin ad unguem,) every cure 
must be wrought either by art and induction of rule, or 
by constraint ; and the wise physician chooseth the for- 
mer. Which argument her ladyship being pleased to 
allow well of, 1 have made it my business so to blend 
instruction and caution with delight, (fiat mioctio, as we 
say) that I can answer that the vulgar mind will be de- 
fecated, and purged of anile, and popish fooleries by 
the medicament adhibited, so that the primes vice being 
cleansed. Master Henderson, or any other able pastor, 
may at will throw in tonics, and effectuate a perfect 
moral cure, tuto, cito, jucunde.” 

“ I have no charge. Doctor Lundin,” replied the 
page 

“ Call me not doctor,” said the chamberlain, “ since 
I have laid aside my furred gown and bonnet, and re- 
tired me into this temporality of chamberlainship.” 

“ O, sir,” said the page, who was no stranger by re- 
port to the character of this original, “ tlie cowl makes 
not the monk, neither the cord the friar — we have all 
heard of the cures wrought by Doctor Lundin.” 

“ Toys, young sir — trifles,” answered the leech, with 
grave disclamation of superior skill ; “ the hit-or-miss 


80 


THE ABBOT. 


practice of a poor retired gentleman, in a short cloak, 
and doublet — Marry, Heaven sent its blessing — and this 
I must say, better fashioned mediciners have brought 
fewer patients through — lunga roba corta scicnzia, saith 
the Italian — ha, fair sir, you have the language ?” 

Roland Graeme did not think it necessary to expound 
to this learned Theban whether he understood him or no ; 
but, leaving that matter uncertain, lie told him he came 
in quest of certain packages which should liave arrived 
at Kinross, and been placed under the chamberlain’s 
charge, the evening before. 

“ Body o’ me !” said Doctor Lundin, “ I fear our 
common carrier, John Auchtermuchty, hath met with 
some mischance, that he came not up last night with his 
wains — bad land this to journey in, my master ; and the 
fool will travel by night too, although, (besides all mala- 
dies from your tussis to your pesiis, which walk abroad in 
the night-air,) he may well fall in with half a dozen 
swash-bucklers, who will ease him at once of his bag- 
gage and his earthly complaints. I must send forth to 
inquire after him, since he hath stuff of the honourable 
household on hand — and, by Our Lady, he hath stuft' ol 
mine too — certain drugs sent me from the city for com- 
position of my Alexipharmics — this gear must be looked 
to. — Hodge,” said he, addressing one of his redoubted 
body-guard, “ do thou and Toby Telford take the mick- 
le brown aver and the black cut-tailed mare, and make 
out towards the Keiry-craigs, and see what tidings you 
can have of Auchtermuchty and his wains — I trust it is 
only the medicine of the pottle-pot, (being the only rned- 
icainentum which the beast useth) which hath caused him 
to tarry on the road. Take the ribands from your 
halberds, ye knaves, and get on your jacks, plate- 
sleeves, and knapsculls, that your presence may work 
some terror if you meet with opposers.” He then add- 
ed, turning to Roland Grjeme, “ I warrant me we shall 
have news of the wains in brief season. Meantime, it 
will please you to look upon the sports ; but first to enter 


THE ABBOT. 


81 


my poor lodging and take your morning’s cup. For 
what saith the school of Salerno I 

Poculum,mane haustiim, 

Restaurat naturam exhaustam.’' 

Your learning is too profound for me,” replied the 
page ; “ and so would your ’draught be likevv^ise, I fear.” 

“ Not a whit, fair sir — a cordial cup of sack, impreg- 
nated with worm-wood, is the best anti-pestilential 
draught; and, to speak truth, the pestilential miasmata 
are now very rife in the atmosphere. We live in a happy 
time, young man,” continued he, in a tone of grave 
irony, “ and have many blessings unknown to our fath- 
ers — Here are two sovereigns in the land, a regnant and 
a claimant — that is enough of one good thing — but if 
any one wants more, he may find a king in every peel- 
house in the country ; so if we lack government, it is not 
for want of governors. Then have we a civil war to phle- 
botomize us every year, and to prevent our population from 
starving for want of food — and for the same purpose, we 
have the plague proposing us a visit, the best of all reci- 
pes for thinning a land, and converting younger brothers 
into elder ones. Well, each man in his vocation. You 
young fellows of the sword desire to wrestle, fence, or 
so forth, with some expert adversary ; and for my part, 
I love to match myself for life or death against that same 
plague.” 

As they proceeded up the street of the little village 
towards the doctor’s lodgings, his attention was succes- 
sively occupied by the various personages whom he met, 
and pointed out to the notice of his companion. 

“ Do you see that fellow with the red bonnet, the blue 
jerkin, and the great rough baton in his hand ^ — 1 be- 
lieve that clown hath the strength of a tower — he has 
lived fifty years in the world, and never encouraged the 
liberal sciences by buying one pennyworth of medica- 
.ments.— But see you that man with the facies hippocra- 
ticaV^ said he, pointing out a thin peasant, with swelled 
legs, and a m.ost cadaverohs countenance ; “ that I call 


82 


THE ABBOT. 


one of the worthiest men in the barony — he breakfasts, 
luncheons, dines, and sups by my advice, and not with- 
out my medicine ; and, for his own single part, will go 
farther to clear out a moderate stock of pharmaceutics, 
than half the country besides. — How do you, my honest 
friend said he to the party in question, with a tone of 
condolence. 

“ Very weakly, sir, since I took the electuary,” an- 
swered the patient ; “ it neighboured ill with the two 
spoonsful of pease-porridge and the kirn-milk.” 

“Pease-porridge and kirn-milk ! Have you been un- 
der medicine these ten years, and keep your diet so ill ^ 
— the next morning take the electuary by itself, and touch 
nothing for six hours.” The poor object bowed, and 
limped off. 

The next whom the doctor deigned to take notice of, 
was a lame fellow, by whom the honour was altogether un- 
deserved, for, at sight of the mediciner, he began to shuffle 
away in the crowd as fast as his infirmities would permit. 

“ There is an ungrateful hound for you,” said Doctor 
Lundin ; “ 1 cured him of the gout in his feet, and now 
he talks of the chargeableness of medicine, and makes 
the first use of his restored legs to fly from his physician. 
His podagra hath become a chiragra, as honest Martial 
hath it — the gout has got into his fingers, and he cannot 
draw his purse. Old saying, and true, 

Praemia cum poscil medicus, Sathan est. 

We are angels when we come to cure — devils when we 
ask payment — but I will administer a purgation to his 
purse, I warrant him. There is his brother too, a sordid 
chuff. — So ho there ! Saunders Darlet ! you have been 
ill I hear ?” 

“ Just got the turn, as 1 was thinking to send to your 
honour, and I am brawly now again — it was riae great 
thing that ailed me.” 

“ Hark you, sirrah,” said the Doctor, “ I trust you 
remember you are owing to the laird four stones of bar- 
ley-meal, and a bow of oats ; and I would have you 


THE ABBOT. 


83 


send no more such kain-fowls as you sent last season, 
that looked as wretchedly as patients just dismissed from 
a plague-hospital ; and tliere is hard money owing be- 
sides.” 

“ I was thinking, sir,” said the man, more Scotico, 
that is, returning no direct answer on the subject on which 
he was addressed, “ my best way would be to come 
down to your honour, and take your advice yet, in case 
my trouble should come back.” 

“ Do so then, knave,” replied Lundin, “ and remem- 
ber what Ecclesiasticus saith — “ Give place to the physi- 
cian — let him not go from thee, for thou hast need of 
him.” 

His exhortation was interrupted by an apparition, 
which seemed to strike the doctor with as much horror 
and surprise as his own visage inflicted upon sundry of 
those persons whom he had addressed. 

The figure which produced this effect on the Escula- 
pius of the village, was that of a tall old woman, who 
wore a high-crowned hat and muffler. The first of these 
habiliments added apparently to her stature, and the 
other served to conceal the lower part of her face ; and 
as the hat itself was slouched, little could be seen be- 
sides two brown cheek-bones, and the eyes of swarthy 
fire, that gleamed from under two shaggy grey eyebrows. 
She was dressed in a long dark-coloured robe, of unus- 
ual fashion, bordered at the skirts, and on the stomacher, 
with a sort of white trimming resembling the Jewish 
phylacteries, on which were wrought the characters of 
some unknown language. She held in her hand a walk- 
ing-staff of black ebony. 

“ By the soul of Celsus,” said Doctor Luke Lundin, 
“ It is old mother Nicneven herself — she hath come to 
beard me within mine own bounds, and in the very exe- 
cution of mine office ! Have at thy coal, old woman, as 
the song says — Hob Anster, let her presently be seized 
and committed to the tolbooth ; and if there are any 
zealous brethren here who would give the hag her de- 


84 


THE ABBOT. 


sorts, and duck her, as a witch, in the loch, I pray let 
them in no way be hindered.” 

But the myrmidons of Doctor Lundin showed in this 
case no alacrity to do his bidding. Hob Anster even 
ventured to remonstrate in the name of himself and his 
brethren. “ To be sure he was to do his honour’s bid- 
ding ; and for a’ that folks said about the skill and 
witcheries of mother Nicneven he would put his trust 
in God, and his hand on her collar, without dreadour. 
But she was no common spae wife, this mother Nicne- 
ven, like Jean Jopp that lived in the Brierie-baulk. She 
had lords and lairds that would ruffle for her. There 
was, Moncrief of Tippermalloch, that was popish, and 
the laird of Carslogie, a kend Queen’s man, were in 
the fair, with wha kend how mony swords and bucklers 
at their back ; and they would be sure to make a break- 
out if the officers meddled with the auld popish witch- 
wife, who was sae weel friended ; mair especially as the 
laird’s best men, such as were not in the castle, were in 
Edinburgh with him, and he doubted his honour the 
Doctor would find ower few to make a good backing, if 
blades were bare.” 

The Doctor listened unwillingly to this prudential 
counsel, and was only comforted by the faithful promise 
of his satellite, that “ the old woman should, as he ex- 
pressed it, “ be ta’en canny the next time she trespass- 
ed on the bounds.” 

“ And in that event,” said the Doctor to his compan- 
ion, “fire and faggot shall be the best of her welcome.” 

This he spoke in hearing of the dame herself, who 
even then, and in passing the Doctor, shot towards him 
from under her grey eyebrows a look of the most in- 
sulting and contemptuous superiority. 

“ This way,” continued the physician, “ this way,” 
marshalling his guest into his lodging, — “ take care you 
stumble not over a retort, for it is hazardous for the 
ignorant to walk in the ways of art.” 

The page found all reason for the caution ; for be- 
sides stuffed birds, and lizards, and bottled snakes, 


THE ABBOT. 


85 


and bundles of simples made up, and other parcels 
spread out to dry, and all the confusion, not to mention 
the mingled and sickening smells, incidental to a drug- 
gist’s stock in trade, he had also to avoid heaps of char- 
coal, crucibles, bolt-heads, stoves, and the other furniture 
of a chemical laboratory. 

Amongst his other philosophical qualities, Doctor 
Lundin failed not to be a confused sloven, and his old 
housekeeper, whose life, as she said, was spent in “ red- 
ding him up,” had trotted off to the mart of gaiety with 
other and younger folks. Much clattering and jang- 
ling therefore there was among jars, and bottles, and 
vials, ere the Doctor produced the salutiferous jwtion 
which he recofnmended so strongly, and a search equally 
long and noisy followed, among broken cans and crack- 
ed pipkins, ere he could bring forth a cup out of which 
to drink it. Both matters being at length achieved, the 
Doctor set the example to his guest, by quaffing off a 
cup of the cordial, and smacking his lips with approba- 
tion as it descended his gullet. Roland, in turn, submit- 
ted to swallow the potion which his host so earnestly 
recommended, but which he found so insufferably bitter, 
that he became eager to escape from the laboratory in 
search of a draught of fair water to expel the taste. In 
spite of his efforts, he was nevertheless detained by the 
garrulity of his host, till he gave him some account of 
mother Nicneven. 

“ I care not to speak of her, ’ said the Doctor, “ in 
the open air, and among the throng of people ; not for 
fright, like yon cowardly dog'Anster, but because I would 
give no occasion for a fray, having no leisure to look to 
stabs, slashes, and broken bones. Men call the old hag 
a prophetess — I do scarce believe she could foretell when 
a brood of chickens will chip the shell — Men say she 
reads the heavens — my black bitch knows as much of 
them when she sits baying the moon — Men pretend the an- 
cient wretch is a sorceress, a witch, and what not — Inter 
nos, I will never contradict a rumour whicli may bring 
8 VOL. II. 


86 


THE ABBOT. 


her to'the stake, which she so richly deserves ; but neith- 
er will I believe that the tales of witches which they din 
into our ears are aught but knavery, cozenage, and old 
women’s fables.” 

“ In the name of heaven, what is she then,” said the 
page, “ that you make such a stir about her 

“ She is one of those cursed old women,” replied the 
Doctor, “ who take currently and impudently upon 
themselves to act as advisers and curers of the sick, on 
the strength of some trash of herbs, some rhyme of 
spells, some julap or diet, drink or cordial.” 

“ Nay, go no farther,” said the page ; “if they brew 
cordials, evil be their lot and all their partakers!” 

“ You say well, young man,” said Doctor Lundin ; 
“ for mine own part, 1 know no such pests to the com- 
monwealth as these old incarnate devils, who haunt the 
chambers of the brain-sick patients, that are mad enough 
to suffer them to interfere with, disturb, and let, the reg- 
ular progress of a learned and artificial cure, with their 
syrups, and their julaps, and diascordium,and mithridate, 
and my lady what-shall-call’ums powder, and worthy 
Dame Trashem’s pill; and thus make widows and or- 
phans, and cheat the regular and well-studied physician, 
in order to get the name of wise women and skeely 
neighbours, and so forth. But no more on’t — Mother 
Nicneven^ and I will meet one dav, and she shall know 
there is danger in dealing with the doctor.” 

“ It is a true word, and many have found it,” said the 
page ; “ but, under your favour, 1 would fain walk abroad 
for a little, and see these sports.” 

“ It is well moved,” said the Doctor ; “ and I too 
should be showing myself abroad. jMoreover, the play 
waits us, young man — to-day, totus mundus agit his- 
trionemy — And they sallied forth accordingly into the 
mirthful scene. 


THE ABBOT. 


87 


CHAPTER VIL 

See on yon verdant lawn, the gathering crowd 
Thickens amain ; the buxom nymphs advance, 

Usher’d by jolly clowns ; distinctions cease, 

Lost in the common Joy, and the bold slave 
Leans on his wealthy master unreproved. 

Rural Sports. — Somerville. 

The reappearance of the dignified chamberlain on 
the street of the village was eagerly hailed by the rev- 
ellers, as a pledge that the play, or dramatic representa- 
tion, which had been postponed owing to his absence, 
was now full surely to commence. Anything like an 
approach to this most interesting of all amusements, was 
of recent origin in Scotland, and engaged public atten- 
tion in proportion. All other sports were discontinued. 
The dance around the May-pole was arrested — the ring 
broken up and dispersed, while the dancers, each leading 
his partner by the hand, tripped off to the Sylvan thea- 
tre. A truce was in like manner achieved betwixt a huge 
brown bear and certain mastiffs, who were tugging and 
pulling at his shaggy coat, under the mediation of the 
bear-ward and half a dozen butchers and yeomen, who, 
by dint of staving and tailings as it was technically 
termed, separated the unfortunate animals, whose fury 
had for an hour past been their chief amusement. The 
itinerant minstrel found himself deserted by the audience 
he had collected, even in the most interesting passage of 
the romance which he recited, and just as he was send- 
ing about his boy, with bonnet in hand, to collect their 
oblations. He indignantly stopped short In the midst of 
Roscwal and Lilian, and, replacing his three-stringed fid- 
dle, or rebeck, in its leathern case, followed the crowd, 
with no good-will, to the exhibition which had superseded 
his own. The jnggler had ceased his exertions of emit- 


88 


THE ABBOT. 


ting flame and smoke, and was content to respire in the 
manner of ordinary mortals, rather than to play gratui- 
tously the part of a fiery dragon. In short, all other sports 
were suspended, so eagerly did the revellers throng to- 
wards the place of representation. 

They would err greatly, who should regulate their 
ideas of this dramatic exhibition upon those derived from 
a modern theatre j for tlie rude shows of Thespis were 
far less difTerent from those exhibited by Euripides on 
the stage of Athens, with all its magnificent decorations 
and pomp of dresses and of scenery. In the present 
case, there were no scenes, no stage, no machinery, no 
pit, box, and gallery, no box-lobby ; and, what might in 
poor Scotland be some consolation for other negations, 
there was no taking of money at the door. As in the 
devices of the magnanimous Bottom, the actors had a 
green-sward plot for a stage, and a hawthorn bush for a 
green-room and tyring-house : the spectators being ac- 
commodated with seats on the artificial bank which had 
been raised around three-fourths of the play-ground, the 
remainder being left open for the entrance and exit of 
the performers. Here sat the uncritical audience, the 
chamberlain in the centre, as the person highest in office ; 
all alive to enjoyment and admiration, and all, therefore, 
dead to criticisni. 

The characters which appeared and disappeared be- 
fore the amused and interested audience, were those 
which fill the earlier stage in all nations — old men, cheat- 
ed by their w’ives and daughters, pillaged by their sons, 
and imposed on by their domestics, a braggadocio cap- 
tain, a knavish pardoner or quaestionary, a country bump- 
kin, and a wanton city-dame. Amid all these, and more 
acceptable than almost the whole put together, was the 
all-licensed fool, the Gracioso of the Spanish drama, 
who, with his cap fashioned into the resemblance of a 
coxcomb, and his bauble, a truncheon terminated by a 
carved figure, wearing a fool’s-cap in his hand, went, 
came, and returned, mingling in every scene of the piece, 
and interrupting the business, wdihout having any share 


THE ABBOT. 


89 


himself in the action, and ever and anon transferring his 
gibes from the actors on the stage to the audience who 
sat around, prompt to applaud the whole. 

The wit of the piece, which was not of the most pol- 
ished kind, was chiefly directed against the superstitious 
practices of the Catholic religion ; and the stage artille- 
ry had on this occasion been levelled by no less a per- 
son than Doctor Lundin, who had not only commanded 
the manager of the entertainment to select one of the 
numerous satires which had been written against the pa- 
pists, (several of which were cast in a dramatic form,) 
but had even, like the Prince of Denmark, caused them 
to insert, or, according to his own phrase, to infuse, here 
and there, a few pleasantries of his own penning, on the 
same inexhaustible subject, hoping thereby to mollify 
the rigour of the Lady of Lochleven towards pastimes 
of this description. He failed not to jog Roland’s el- 
bow, who was sitting in state behind him, and recommend 
to his particular attention those favourite passages. As 
for the page, to whom the very idea of such an exhibi- 
tion, simple as it was, was entirely new, he beheld it 
with the undiminished and ecstatic delight with which 
men of all ranks look for the first time on dramatic rep- 
resentation, and laughed, shouted, and clapped his hands 
as the performance proceeded. An incident at length 
took place which effectually broke off his interest in the 
business of the scene. 

One of the principal personages in the comic part of 
the drama was, as we have already said, a quaestionary 
or pardoner, one of those itinerants who liawked about 
from place to place reliques, real or pretended, with 
which he excited the devotion at once, and the charity 
of the populace, and generally deceived both the one 
and the other. The hypocrisy, impudence, and profli- 
gacy of these clerical wanderers, had made them the 
subject of satire fi-om the time of Chaucer down to that 
of Heywood. Their present representative failed not 
to follow the same line of humour, exhibiting pig’s bones 
8* VOL. II. 


90 


THE AEEOT. 


for reliques, and boasting the virtues of small tin crosses, 
which had been shaken in the holy porringer at Loretto, 
and of cockle-shells, which had been brought from the 
shrine of Saint James of Compostella, all which he dis- 
posed of to the devout Catholics at nearly as high a 
price as antiquaries are now willing to pay for baubles of 
similar intrinsic value. At length the pardoner pulled 
from his scrip a small phial of clear water, of which he 
vaunted the quality in the following verses : — 

Listneth, gode people, everiche one, 

For in the londe of Babyloiie, 

Far eastward I wot it lyeth, - 

And is the first londe the sonne espieth, 

Thcr, as he cometh fro out the se ; 

In this ilk londe, as thinketh me. 

Right as holie legendes tell, 

Snotlreth from a roke a well. 

And falleth into ane bath of ston, 

Wher chast Susanne in times long gon. 

Was wont to wash her bodie and lim — 

Mickle verlue hath that streme. 

As ye shall se er that ye pasi, 

Ensample by this little glas — 

Through nightes cold and dayes hote, 

Hiderweu-d 1 have it brought ; 

Hath a wife made slip or slide. 

Or a maiden stepp’d aside ; 

Tutteth this water under her nese, 

Wold she nold she, she shall snese. 


The jest, as the reader skilful in the antique language 
of the drama must at once perceive, turned on the same 
pivot as in the old minstrel tales of the Drinking Horn of 
King Arthur, and the Mantle made Amiss. But the au 
dience were neither learned nor critical enough to chal- 
lenge its want of originality. The potent relique was, 
after such grimace and buffoonery as befitted the subject, 
presented successively to each of the female personages 
of the drama, not one of whom sustained the supposed 
test of discretion ; but, to the infinite ’delight of the au- 
dience sneezed much louder and longer than perhaps 


THE AljliOT. 


91 


they themselves had counted on. The jest seemed at 
last worn thread-bare, and the pardoner was passing on 
to some new pleasantry, when the jester or clown ol" the 
drama, possessing himself secretly of the phial wliich 
contained the wondrous liquor, applied it suddenly to the 
nose of a young woman, who, with her black silk muffler 
or screen drawn over her face, was sitting in the fore- 
most rank of the spectators, intent apparently upon the 
business of the stage. The contents of the phial, well 
calculated to sustain the credit of the pardoner’s legend, 
set the damsel a-sneezing violently ; an admission of 
frailty which was received vvitl) shouts of rapture by the 
audience. These were soon, however, renewed at the 
expense of the jester himself, when the insulted maiden 
extricated, ere the paroxysm was well over, one hand 
from the folds of her mantle, and bestowed on the wag a 
buffet, which made him reel fully his own length from the 
pardoner, and then acknowledge the favour by instant 
prostration. 

No one pities a jester overcome in his vocation, and 
the clown met with little sympathy, when, rising from the 
ground, and whimpering forth his complaints of harsh 
treatment, he invoked the assistance and sympathy of 
the audience. But the chamberlain feeling his own dig- 
nity insulted, ordered two of his halberdiers to bring the 
culprit before him. When these official persons first ap- 
proached the virago, she threw herself into an attitude 
of firm defiance, as if determined to resist their author- 
ity ; and from the sample of strength and spirit whicli 
she had already displayed, they showed no alacrity at 
executing their commission. But on half a minute’s re- 
flection, the damsel changed totally her attitude and 
manner, folded her cloak around her arms in modest and 
maiden-like fashion, and walked of her own accord to 
the presence of the great man, followed and guarded by 
the two manful satellites. As she moved across the va- 
cant space, and more especially as she stood at the foot- 
stool of the doctor’s judgment-seat, the maiden discov- 
ered that lightness and elasticity of step, and natural 


92 


THE ABBOT* 


grace of manner, which connoisseurs in female beauty 
know to be seldom divided from it. Moreover, lier neat 
russet-coloured jacket, and short petticoat of the same 
colour, displayed a handsome form and a pretty leg. Her 
features were concealed by the screen ; but the Doctor, 
whose gravity did not prevent his pretensions to be a 
connoisseur of the school we have hinted at, saw enough 
to judge favourably of the piece by the sample. 

He began, however, with considerable austerity of 
manner — “ And, how now, saucy quean!” said the med- 
ical man of office, “ what have you to say why I should 
not order you to be ducked in tlie loch, for lifting your 
hand to the man in my presence 

“ Marry,” replied the culprit, “ because I judge 
that your honour will not think the cold bath necessary 
for my complaints.” 

“ A pestilent jade,” said the Doctor, whispering to 
Roland Graeme ; “ and I’ll warrant her a good one — her 
voice is as sweet as syrup. — But, my pretty maiden,” 
said he, “ you show us wonderful little of that counte- 
nance of yours — be pleased to throw aside your muffler.” 

“ I trust your honour will excuse me till we are more 
private,” answered the maiden ; “ for 1 have acquaint- 
ance, and 1 should like ill to be known in the country, as 
the poor girl whom that scurvy knave put his jest upon.” 

“ Fear nothing for thy good name, my sweet little 
modicum of candied manna!” replied the Doctor ; “ for 
1 protest to you, as 1 am chamberlain of Lochleven, 
Kinross, and so forth, that the chaste Susanna herself 
could not have snuffed that elixir without sternutation, 
being in truth a curious distillation of rectified aceturn, or 
vinegar of the sun, prepared by mine own hands-Where- 
fore, as thou sayest thou wilt come to me in private and 
express thy contrition for the offence whereof thou hast 
been guilty, I command that all for the present go for- 
ward as if no such interruption of the prescribed course 
Jiad taken place.” 


THE ABBOT. 


93 


The damsel curtsied and tripped back to her place. 
The play proceeded, but it no longer attracted the atten- 
tion of Roland Grasme. 

The voice, the figure, and what the veil permitted to 
be seen of the neck and tresses of the village damsel, 
bore so strong a resemblance to those of Cattieriiie Sey- 
ton, that he felt like one bewildered in the mazes of a 
changeful and stupifying dream. The memorable scene 
of the hostelry rushed on his recollection, with all its 
doubtful and marvellous circumstances. Were the tales 
of enchantment which he had read in romances realized 
in this extraordinary girl ? Could she transport herself 
from the walled and guarded Castle of Lochleven, 
moated with its broad lake, (towards which he cast back 
a look as if to ascertain it was still in existence,) and 
watched with such scrupulous care as the safety of a na- 
tion demanded — Could she surmount all these obstacles, 
and make such careless and dangerous use of her liber- 
ty, as to engage herself publicly in a quarrel in a village 
fair f Roland was unable to determine whether the ex- 
ertions which it must have cost her to gain her freedom, 
or the use to which she had put it, rendered her the 
most unaccountable creature. 

Lost in these meditations, he kept his gaze fixed on 
the subject of them ; and in every casual motion, dis- 
covered, or thought he discovered, something which re- 
minded him still more strongly of Catherine Seyton. It 
occurred to him more than once, indeed, that he might 
be deceiving himself by exaggerating some casual like- 
ness into absolute identity. But then the meeting at the 
hostelry of Saint Michael’s returned to his mind, and it 
seemed in the highest degree improbable, that, under such 
various circumstances, mere imagination should twice 
have found opportunity to play him the self-same trick. 
This time, however, he determined to have his doubts 
resolved ; and for this purpose he sat during the rest of 
the play like a grey-hound in the slip, ready to spring 
upon the hare the instant that she was started. The 
damsel, whom he watched attentively, lest she should 


94 


THE ABBOT. 


escape in the crowd when the spectacle was closed, sat as 
if perfectly unconscious that she was observed. But the 
worthy Doctor marked the direction of his eyes, and 
magnanimously suppressed his own inclination to become 
the Theseus to this Hippolita, in deference to the rights 
of hospitality which enjoined him to foi bear interference 
with tlie pleasurable })ursuits of his young friend. He 
passed one or two formal gibes upon the fixed attention 
which the page paid to the unknown, and upon his own 
jealousy ; adding, however, that if both were to be pre- 
sented to the patient at once, he had little doubt she would 
think the younger man the sounder prescription. “ I 
fear me,” he added, “ we shall have no news of the 
knave Auchtermuchty for some time, since the vermin 
whom I sent after him seem to have proved corbie-mes- 
sengers. So you have an hour or two on your hands, 
Master Page ; and as the minstrels are beginning to strike 
up, now that the play is ended, why, an you incline for 
a dance, yonder is the green, and there sits your partner 
— I trust you will bold me perfect in my diagnostics, since 
I see with half an eye what disease you are sick of, and 
have administered a pleasing remedy. 

Discernit sapiens res (as Chambers hath it) qms confundit asellus.” 

The page hardly heard the end of the learned adage, 
or the charge which the Chamberlain gave him to be 
within reach, in case of the wains arriving suddenly, and 
sooner than expected — so eager was he at once to shake 
himself free of his learned associate, and to satisfy his 
curiosity regarding the unknown damsel. Yet, in the 
haste with which he made towards her, he found time to 
reflect, that in order to secure an opportunity of conver- 
sing with her in private, he must not alarm her at first 
accosting her. He therefore composed his manner and 
gait, and advancing with becoming self-confidence before 
three or four country-fellows who Were intent on the same 
design, but knew not so well how to put their request in- 
to shape, he acquainted her that he, as the deputy of the 


THE ABBOT. 


95 


venerable Chamberlain, requested the honour of her hand 
as a partner. 

“ The venerable Chamberlain,” said the damsel, frank- 
ly reaching the page her hand, “ does very well to ex- 
ercise this part of his privilege by deputy ; and I sup- 
pose the laws of the revels leave me no choice but to 
accept of his faithful delegate.” 

“ Provided, fair damsel,” said the page, “ his choice 
of a delegate is not altogether distasteful to you.” 

“ Of that, fair sir,” replied the maiden, “ I will tell 
you more when we have danced the first measure.” 

Catherine Seyton had admirable skill in gestic lore, and 
was sometimes called on to dance for the amusement of her 
royal mistress. Roland Graeme had often been a spectator 
of her skill, and sometimes, at the Queen’s command, Cath- 
erine’s partner on such occasions. He was, therefore, 
perfectly acquainted with Catherine’s mode of dancing, 
and observed that his present partner, in grace, in agility, 
in quickness of ear, and precision of execution, exactly 
resembled her, save' that the Scottish jig, which he now 
danced with her, required a more violent and rapid mo- 
tion, and more rustic agility, than the stately pavens, 
lavoltas, and courantoes, which he had seen her execute 
in the chamber of Queen iMary. The active duties of 
the dance left him little time for reflection, and none for 
conversation ; but when xhew pas de deux was finished, 
amidst the acclamations of the villagers, who had seldoui 
witnessed such an exhibition, he took an opportunity, 
when they yielded up the green to another couple, to use 
the privilege of a partner, and enter into conversation 
with the mysterious fuaiden whom he still held by the 
hand. “ Fair partner, may I not crave the name of her 
who has graced me thus far 

“ You may,” said the maiden ; “ but it is a question 
whether I shall answer you.” 

“ And why asked Roland. 

“ Because nobody gives anything for nothing — and 
you can tell me nothing in I'eturn which I care to hear.” 


96 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Could I not tell you my name and lineage, in ex- 
change for yours ?” returned Roland. 

“ No !” answered the maiden, “ for you know little 
of either.” 

“ How said the page, somewhat angrily. 

“ Wrath you not for the matter,” said the damsel, “ I 
will show you in an instant that I know more of you than 
you do of yourself,” 

“ Indeed !” answered Grasrne ; “ for whom then do 
you take me ?” 

“ For the wild falcon,” answered she, “ whom a dog 
brought in his mouth to a certain castle, when he was but 

an unfledged eyas for the hawk whom men dare not 

let fly, lest he should check at game, and pounce on car- 
rion — whom folk must keep hooded till he has the proper 
light of his eyes, and can discover good from evil.” 

“Well — be it so,” replied Roland Grajme ; “ I guess 
at a part of your parable, fair mistress mine — and perhaps 
I know as much of you as you do of me, and can well 
dispense with the information which you are so niggard 
in giving.” 

“ Prove that,” said the maiden, “ and 1 will give you 
credit for more penetration than 1 judged you to be gifted 
withal.” 

“ It shall be proved instantly,” said Roland Graeme 
“ The first letter of your name is S, and the last N.” 

“ Admirable !” said his partner ; “ guess on.” 

“ It pleases you to-day,” continued Roland, “ to wear 
the snood and kirtle, and perhaps you may be seen to- 
morrow in hat and feather, hose and doublet.” 

“ In the clout ! in the clout ! you have hit the very 
white,” said the damsel, suppressing a great inclination 
to laugh. 

“ You can switch men’s eyes out of their heads as well 
as the hearts out of their bosoms.” 

These last words were uttered in a low and tender 
tone, which, to Roland’s great mortification, a^nd some- 
what to his displeasure, was so far from allaying, that it 
greatly increased his partner’s disposition to laughter. 


THE ABBOT. 


97 


She could scarce compose herself while she replied, “ If 
you had thought my hand so lormidable,” extricating it 
from his hold, “you would not have grasped it so hard 5 
but I perceive you know me so fully, that there is no oc- 
casion to show you my face.” 

“ Fair Catherine,” said the page, “ he were unwor- 
thy ever to have seen you, far less to have dwelt so long 
in the same service, and under the same roof with you, 
who could mistake your air, your gesture, your step in 
walking or in dancing, the turn of your neck, the sym- 
metry of your form — none could be so dull as not to re- 
cognize you by so many proofs ; but for me, I could 
swear even to that tress of hair that escapes from under 
your muffler.” 

“ And to the face, of course which that muffler covers,” 
said the maiden, removing her veil, and in an instant en- 
deavouring to replace it. She showed the features of 
Catherine ; but an unusual degree of petulant impatience 
inflamed them, when, from some awkwardness in her 
management of the muffler, she was unable again to ad- 
just it with that dexterity which was a principal accom- 
plishment of the coquettes of the time. 

“ The fiend rive the rag to tatters!” said the damsel, 
as the veil fluttered about her shoulders, with an accent 
so earnest and decided, that it made the page start. He 
looked again at the damsel’s face, but the information 
which his eyes received, was to the same purport as be- 
fore. He assisted her to adjust her muffler, and both 
were for an instant silent. The damsel spoke first, for 
Roland Grajme was overwhelmed with surprise at the 
contrarieties which Catherine Seyion seemed to include 
in her person and character. 

“ You are surprised,” said the damsel to him, “ at 
what you see and hear — But the times which make fe- 
males men, are least of all fitted for men to become wo- 
men ; yet you yourself are in danger of such a change.” 

“ I in danger of becoming effeminate 1” said the page. 

9 VOL. II. 


98 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Yes, you, for all the boldness of your reply,” said 
the damsel. “ When you should hold fast your religion, 
because it is assailed on all sides by rebels, traitors, and 
heretics, you let it glide out of your breast like water 
grasped in the hand. If you are driven from the faith of 
your fathers from fear of a traitor, is not that womanish ^ 
— If you are cajoled by the cunning arguments of a trum- 
peter of heresy, or the praises of a puritanic old woman, 
is not that womanish ? — If you are bribed by the hope 
of spoil and preferment, is not that womanish f — And 
when you wonder at my venting a threat or an execra- 
tion, should you not wonder at yourself, who pretending 
to a gentle name and aspiring to knighthood, can be at 
the same time cowardly, silly, and self-interested 

“ I would that a man would bring such a charge!” said 
the page ; “ he should see, ere his life was a minute 
older, whether he had cause to term me coward or no.” 

“ Beware of such big words,” answered the maiden, 
“ you said but anon that I sometimes wear hose and 
doublet.” 

“ But remain still Catherine Seyton, wear what you 
list,” said the page, endeavouring again to possess him- 
self of her hand. 

“ You indeed are pleased to call me so,” replied the 
maiden, evading his intention, “ but I have many other 
names besides.” 

“ And will you not reply to that,” said the page, “ by 
which you are distinguished beyond every other maiden 
in Scotland 

The damsel, unallured by his praises, still kept aloof, 
and sung with gaiety a verse from an old ballad, 

O some do call me Jack, sweet love, 

And some do call me Gill ; 

But when I ride to Holyrood, 

My name is Wilful Will.’' 

“ Wilful Will !” exclaimed the page, impatiently ; 
“ say rather Will o’ the Wisp — Jack with the Fantern, for 
never was such a deceitful or wandering meteor!” 


THE ABBOT. 


99 


“ If I be such,” replied the maiden, “ I ask no fools 
to follow me — If they do so, it is at their own pleasure, 
and must be on tlieir own proper peril.” 

“ Nay, but, dearest Catherine,” said Roland Grasme, 
“ be for one instant serious.” 

“ If you will call me your dearest Catherine, when I 
have given you so many names to choose upon,” replied 
the damsel, “ 1 would ask you how, supposing me for 
two or three hours of my life escaped from yonder tower, 
you have the cruelty to ask me to be serious during the 
only merry moments I have seen perhaps for months 

“ Ay, but, fair Catherine, there are moments of deep 
and true feeling, which are worth ten thousand years of 
the liveliest mirth ; and such was that of yesterday, when 
you so nearly” 

“ So nearly what demanded the damsel, hastily. 

“ When you approached your lips so near to the sign 
you had traced on my forehead.” 

“ Mother of Heaven !” exclaimed she, in a yet fiercer 
tone, and with a more masculine manner than she had yet 
exhibited, — “ Catherine Seyton approach her lips to a 
man’s brow, and thou that man ! — vassal, thou liest !” 

The page stood astonished ; but, conceiving he had 
alarmed the damsel’s delicacy by alluding to the enthusi- 
asm of a moment, and the manner in which she had ex- 
pressed it, he endeavoured to falter forth an apology. 
His excuses, though he was unable to give them any reg- 
ular shape, were accepted by his companion, who had in- 
deed suppressed her indignation after its first explosion — 
“ Speak no more on’t,” she said. ‘‘And now let us part, 
our conversation may attract more notice than is conven- 
ient for either of us.” 

“ Nay, but allow me at least to follow you to some 
sequestered place.” 

“ You dare not,” replied the maiden. 

‘‘ How,” said the youth, “ dare not f where is it you 
dare go, where I dare not follow ?” 


100 


THE ABBOT. 


“ You fear a Will o’ the Wisp,” said the damsel ; 
“ how would you face a fiery dragon, with an enchantress 
mounted on its back f” 

“ Like sir Eger, sir Grime, or sir Greysteil,” said the 
page ; “ but be there such toys to be seen here f” 

“ I go to mother Nicneven’s,” answered the maid ; 
“ and she is witch enough to rein the horned devil, with 
a red silk thread for a bridle, and a rowan-tree switch 
for a whip.” 

“ I will follow you,” said the page. 

“ Let it be at some distance,” said the maiden. 

And wrapping her mantle round her with more suc- 
cess than on her former attempt, she mingled with the 
throng, and walked towards the village heedfully followed 
by Roland Graeme at some distance, and under every 
precaution which he could use to prevent his purpose from 
being observed. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Yes, it is she whose eyes look’d on thy childhood, 

And watch’d with trembling hope thy dawn of youth, 

That now, with these same eyeballs dimm’d with age. 

And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dishonour. 

Old Play. 

At the entrance of the principal, or indeed so to speak, 
the only street in Kinross, the damsel, whose steps were 
pursued by Roland Graeme, cast a glance behind her, as 
if to be certain he had not lost trace of her, and then 
plunged down a very narrow lane which ran betwixt two 
rows of poor and ruinous cottages. She paused for a 
second at the door of one of those miserable tenements, 
again cast her eye up the lane towards Roland, then lift- 
ed the latch, opened the door, and disappeared from his 
view. 


THE ABBOT. 


101 


With whatever Iiasle the page followed her example, 
the difficulty which he found in discovering the trick of 
the latch, which did not work quite in the usual manner, 
and in pushing open the door, which did not yield to his 
first effort, delayed for a minute or two his entrance into 
the cottage. A dark and smoky passage led as usual 
betwixt the exterior wall of the house, the hallan or 
clay-wall, which served as a partition betwixt it and the 
interior. At the end of this passage and through the par- 
tition, was a door leading into the 6en, or inner chamber 
of the cottage, and when Roland Graeme’s hand was up- 
on the latch of this door, a female voice pronounced, 
“ Benedictus qui veniat in nomine Domini^ damnandus 
qui in nomine ijiimici.” On entering the apartment, he 
perceived the figure which the chamberlain had pointed 
out to him as Mother Nicneven, seated beside the lowly 
hearth. But there was no other person in the room. 
Roland Graeme gazed around in surprise at the disap- 
pearance of Catherine Seyton, without paying much re- 
gard to the supposed sorceress, until she attracted and 
rivetted his regard by the tone in which she asked him — 
“ What seekest thou here 

“ I seek,” said the page, with much embarrassment ; 
“ I seek” 

But his answer was cut short, when the old woman, 
drawing her huge grey eyebrows sternly together, with a 
frown which knitted her brow into a thousand wTinkles, 
arose, and erecting herself up to her full natural size, 
tore the kerchief from her head, and seizing Roland by 
the arm, made two strides across the floor of the apart- 
ment to a small window through which the light fell full 
on her face, and shov/ed the astonished youth the coun 
tenance of Magdalen Graeme. — “Yes, Roland,” she said, 

“ thine eyes deceive thee not, they show thee truly the 
features of her whom thou hast thyself deceived, whose 
wine thou hast turned into gall, her bread of joyfulness 
into bitter poison, her hope into the blackest despair — it 
is she who now demands of thee what seekest thou here ? 
9 * 


VOL. IJ. 


102 


. THE ABBOT. 


— She whose heaviest sin towards Heaven hath been that 
she loved thee even belter than the weal of the whole 
church, and could not without reluctance surrender thee 
even in the cause of God — she now asks yon whatseek- 
est thou here 

While she spoke, she kept her broad black eye rivet- 
ted on the youth’s face, with the expression with which 
the eagle regards his prey ere he tears it to pieces. Ro- 
land felt himself at the moment incapable either of reply 
or evasion. This extraordinary enthusiast had preserv- 
ed over him in some measure the ascendancy which she 
had acquired during his childhood ; and besides he knew 
the violence of her passions and her impatience of con- 
tradiction, and was sensible that almost any reply which 
he could make, was likely to throw her into an ecstacy of 
rage. He was therefore silent, and Magdalen Graeme 
proceeded with increasing enthusiasm in her apostrophe 
— “ Once more, what seek’st thou, false boy — seek’st 
thou the honour thou hast renounced, the faith thou hast 
abandoned, the hopes thou hast destroyed f — Or didst 
thou seek me. the sole protectress of thy youth, the only 
parent whom thou hast known, that thou mayst trample 
on my grey hairs, even as thou hast already trampled on 
the best wishes of my heart ?” 

“ Pardon me, mother,” said Roland Graeme ; “ but, 
in truth and reason, 1 deserve not your blame. I have 
been treated amongst you — even by yourself, my rever- 
ed parent, as well as by others, — as one who lacked the 
common attributes of free-will and human reason, or was 
at least deemed unfit to exercise them. A land of en- 
chantment have 1 been led into, and spells have been cast 
around me — every one has met me in disguise — every 
one has spoken to me in parables — 1 have been like one 
who walks in a weary and bewildering dream, and now 
you blame me that I have not the sense, and judgment, 
and steadiness of a waking, and a disenchanted, and a 
reasonable man, who knows what he is doing, and where- 
fore he does it 1 If one must walk with masks and spec- 
tres, who waft themselves from place to place as it were 


THE ABBOT. 


103 


in vision rather than reality, it might shake the soundest 
faith and turn the wisest head. I sought, since 1 must 
needs avow my folly, the same Catherine Seyton with 
whom you made me first acquainted, and whom I most 
strangely find in this village of Kinross, gayest among the 
revellers, when I had but just left her in the well-guard- 
ed Castle of Lochleven, the sad attendant of an impris- 
oned Queen — I sought her, and in her place 1 find you, 
my mother, more strangely disguised than even she is.” 

“ And what hadst thou to do with Catherine Seyton 
said the matron, sternly ; “ is this a time or a world to 
follow maidens, or to dance around a maypole ^ When 
the trumpet summons every true-hearted Scotsman 
around the standard of the true sovereign, shall thou be 
found loitering in a lady’s bower 

“ No, by Heaven, nor imprisoned In the rugged walls 
of an island castle !” answered Roland Grieme ; “ I 
would the blast were to sound even now, for I fear that 
nothing less loud will dispel the chimerical visions by 
which I am surrounded.” 

“ Doubt not that it will be winded,” said the matron, 
“ and that so fearfully loud, that Scotland will never hear 
the like until the last and loudest blast of all shall an- 
nounce to mountain and to valley that time is no more. 
Meanwhile, be thou but brave and constant — Serve God 
and honour thy sovereign — Abide by thy religion — I can- 
not — I will not — I dare not ask thee the truth of the ter- 
rible surmises I have heard touching thy falling away — 
perfect not that accursed sacrifice — and yet, even at this 
late hour, thou mayst he what I have hoped for the son 
of rny dearest hope — what say I the son of my hope — 
thou shall be the hope of Scotland, her boast and her 
honour ! — Even thy wildest and most foolish wishes may 
perchance be fulfilled — I might blush to mingle meaner 
motives with the noble guerdon I hold out to thee — It 
shames me, beiiig such as I am, to mention the idle passions 
of youth, save with contempt and the purpose of censure. 
But we must bribe children to wholesome medicine by the 
ofter of cates, and youth to honourable achievement with 


104 


THE ABBOT. 


the promise of pleasure. Mark me, therefore, Roland. 
The love of Catherine Seyton will follow him only who 
shall achieve the freedom of her Mistress ; and believe, 
it may be one day in thine own power to be that happy 
lover. Cast, therefore, away doubt and fear, and pre- 
pare to do what religion calls for, what thy country de- 
mands of thee, what thy duty as a subject and as a ser- 
vant alike require at your hand ; and be assured even 
the idlest or wildest wishes of thy heart will be most 
readily attained by following the call of thy duty.” 

As she ceased speaking, a double knock was heard 
against the inner door. The matron hastily adjusting her 
muffler, and resuming her chair by the hearth, demanded 
who was there. 

“ Salve in nomine sancto,'^ was answered from without. 

“ Salveie et vos,^^ answered Magdalen Grajine. 

And a man entered in the ordinary dress of a noble- 
man’s retainer, wearing at his girdle a sword and buckler 
— “I sought you,” said he, “ my mother, and him whom 
I see with you.” Then addressing himself to Roland 
Graeme, he said to him, “ Hast thou not a packet from 
George Douglas ?” 

“ I have,” said the page, suddenly recollecting that 
which had been committed to his charge in the morning, 
“ but I may not deliver it to any one without some token 
that they have a right to ask it.” 

“ You say well,” replied the serving-man, and whis- 
pered into his ear, “ the packet which 1 ask is the report 
to his father — will this token suffice ?” 

“ It will,” replied the page, and taking the packet from 
his bosom, gave it to the man. 

“ I will return presently,” said the serving-man, and 
left the cottage. 

Roland had now sufficiently recovered his surprise to 
accost his relative in turn, and request to know the rea- 
son why he found her in so precarious a disguise, and a 
place so dangerous — “You cannot be ignorant,” he said, 
“ of the hatred that the Lady of Lochleven bears to 
those of your — that is of our religion — your present dis- 


THE ABBOT. 


105 


guise lays you open to suspicions of a different kind, but 
inferring no less hazard ; and whether as a Catholic, or 
as a sorceress, or as a friend to the unfortunate Queen, 
you are in equal danger, if apprehended within the bounds 
of the Douglas ; and in the Chamberlain, who adminis- 
ters their authority, you have, for his own reasons, an 
enemy, and a hitter one.” 

“ I know it,” said the matron, her eyes kindling with 
triumph ; “ 1 know that, vain of his school-craft, and 
carnal wisdom, Luke Lundin views with jealousy and 
hatred the blessings which the saints have conferred on 
my prayers, and on the holy reliques, before the touch, 
nay, before the bare presence of which, disease and death 
have so often been known to retreat — I know he would 
rend and tear me ; but there is a chain and a muzzle on 
the ban-dog that shall restrain his fury, and the Master’s 
servant shall not be offended by him until the Master’s 
work is wrought. When that hour comes, let the shad- 
ows of the evening descend on me in thunder and in tem- 
pest ; the time shall be welcome that relieves my eyes 
from seeing guilt, and my ears from listening to blasphe- 
my. Do thou but be constant — play thy part as I have 
played and will play mine, and my release shall be like 
that of a blessed martyr whose ascent to heaven angels 
hail with psalm and song, while earth pursues him with 
hiss and with execration.” 

As she concluded, the serving-man again entered the 
cottage, and said, “ All is well ! the time holds for to- 
morrow night.” 

“ What time what holds exclaimed Roland 
Graeme ; “ I trust T have given the Douglas’s packet to 
no wrong” 

“ Content yourself, young man,” answered the serv- 
ing-man ; thou hast my word and token.” 

“ I know not if the token be right,” said the page ; 
‘‘ and I care not much for the word of a stranger.” 

“ What,” said the matron, “ although thou mayst have 
given a packet delivered to thy charge by one of the 


106 


THE ABBOT. 


Queen’s rebels into the band of a loyal subject — there 
were no great mistake in that, thou hot-brained boy!” 

“ By Saint Andrew, there were foul mistake though,” 
answered the page ^ “ it is the very spirit of my duty, 
in this first stage of chivalry, to be faithful to my trust ; 
and had the devil given me a message to discharge, I 
would not (so I had plighted my faith to the contrary) 
betray his counsel to an angel of light.” 

“ Now, by the love I once bore thee,” said the matron, 
“ I could slay thee with mine own hand, when 1 hear thee 
talk of a dearer faith being due to rebels and heretics, 
than thou owest to thy church and thy prince !” 

“ Be patient, my good sister,” said the serving-man, 
“ I will give him such reasons as shall counterbalance the 
scruples which beset him — the spirit is honourable, though 
now it may be mistimed and misplaced — Follow me, 
young man.” 

“ Ere I go to call tbis stranger to a reckoning,” said 
the page to the matron, “ is there nothing 1 can do for 
your comfort and safety ?” 

“ Nothing,’'’ she replied, “ nothing, save what will lead 
more to thy own honour — the saints who have protected 
me thus far, will lend me succour as I need it. Tread 
the path of glory that is before thee, and only think of 
me^as the creature on earth who will be most delighted 
to hear of thy fame. — Follow the stranger — he hath tid- 
ings for you that you little expect.” 

The stranger remained on the threshold as if waiting 
for Roland, and as soon as he saw him put himself in 
motion, he moved on before at a quick pace. Diving 
still deeper down the lane, Roland perceived that it was 
now bordered by buildings upon the one side only, and 
that the other was fenced by a high old wall, over which 
some trees extended their branches. Descending a 
good way farther, they came to a small door in ihe 
wall. Roland’s guide paused, looked around for an in- 
stant to see if any one were within sight, then taking a 
key from his pocket, opened the door and' entered, 
making a sign to Roland Greeme to follow him. He 


THE ABBOT. 


107 


did so, and the stranger locked the door carefully on the 
inside. During this operation the page had a moment to 
look around, and perceived that he was in a small orchard 
very trimly kept. 

The stranger led him through an alley or two, shaded 
by trees loaded with summer-fruit, into a pleached arbour, 
where, taking the turf-seat which was on the one side, 
he motioned to Roland to occupy that which was oppo- 
site to him, and after a momentary silence, opened the 
conversation as follows : “ You have asked a better war- 
rant than the word of a mere stranger, to satisfy you that 
I have the authority of George of Douglas for possessing 
myself of the packet intrusted to your charge.^” 

“ It is'precisely the point on which I demand reckon- 
ing of you,” said Roland. “ I fear I have acted hastily ; 
if so, I must redeem my error as I best may.” 

“ You hold me then as a perfect stranger ?” said the 
man. “ Look at my face more attentively, and see if 
the features do not resemble those of a man much known 
to you formerly.” 

Roland gazed attentively, but the ideas recalled to his 
mind were so inconsistent with the mean and servile 
dress of the .person before him, that he did not venture 
to express the opinion which he was irresistibly induced 
to form. 

“ Yes, my son,” said the stranger, observing his em- 
barrassment, “ you do indeed see before you the un- 
fortunate father Ambrosius, who once accounted his min- 
istry crowned in your preservation from the snares ol 
heresy, but who is now condemned to lament thee as a 
castaway !” 

Roland Graeme’s kindness of heart was at least equal 
to his vivacity of temper — he could not bear to see his 
ancient and honoured master and spiritual guide in a 
situation which inferred a change of fortune so melan- 
choly, hut, throwing himself at his feet, grasped his 
knees and wept aloud. 

“ What mean these tears, my son F” said the Abbot ; 
“ if they are slied for your own sins and follies, surely 


108 


THE AIJEOT. 


they are gracious showers, and may avail thee much — 
but weep not if liiey lull on my account. You indeed 
see the Superior of the Community of Saint Mary’s, in 
the dress oi’ a poor sworder, who gives his master the 
use of his blade and buckler, and, if needful, of his life, 
for a coarse livery coat, and four marks by the year. 
But such a garb suits the time, and, in the period of the 
church militant, as well becomes her prelates as staff, 
mitre, and crosier, in the days of the church’s triumph.” 

“ By what fate,” said the page, — “ and yet why,” 
added he, checking himself, “ need I ask f Catharine 
Seyton in some sort prepared me for this. But that the 
change should be so absolute — the destruction so com- 
plete !” 

“Yes, my son,” said the Abbot Ambrosius, “thine 
own eyes beheld, in my unworthy elevation to the Ab- 
bot’s stall, the last especial act of holy solemnity which 
shall be seen in the church of Saint Mary’s, until it shall 
please heaven to turn back the captivity of the church. 
For the present the shepherd is smitten — ay, well nigh 
to the eartli — the flocks are scattered, and the shrines of 
saints and martyrs, and pious benefactors to the church, 
are given to the owls of night, and the satyrs of the de- 
sert.” 

“ And your brother, the Knight of Avenel — could he 
do nothing for your protection .^” 

“ He himself hath fallen under the suspicion of the 
ruling powers,” said the Abbot, “ who are as unjust to 
their friends as they are cruel to their enemies. 1 could 
not grieve at it, did 1 hope it might estrange him from 
his course ; but 1 know the soul of Halbert, and 1 rather 
fear it will drive him to prove his fidelity to their unhap- 
py cause, by some deed which may be yet more de- 
structive to the church, and more offensive to heaven. 
Enough of this; and now to the business of our meeting 
— I trust you will hold it sufficient if 1 pass my word to 
you that the packet of which you were lately the bearer, 
was designed for my hands by George of Douglas 

“ Then,” said the page, “ is George of Douglas” 


THE ABBOT. 


100 


“ A true friend to his Queen, Roland ; and will soon, 
1 trust, have his eyes opened to the errors of his (mis- 
called) church.” 

“ But what is he to his father, and what to the Lady 
of Lochleven, who has been as a mother to him said 
the page impatiently. 

“ The best friend to both, in time and through eter- 
nity,” said the Abbot, “ if he shall prove the happy in- 
strument for redeeming the evil they have wrought, and 
are still working.” 

“ Still,” said the page, “ I like not that good service 
which begins in breach of trust.” 

“ I blame not thy scruples, my son,” said the Abbot ; 
“ but the time which has wrenched asunder the alle- 
giance of Christians, to the church, and of subjects to 
their king, has dissolved all the lesser bonds of society ; 
and in such days, mere human ties must no more re- 
strain our progress, than the brambles and briars, which 
catch hold of his garments, should delay the path of a 
pilgrim who travels to pay his vows.” 

“ But, my father,”— said the youth, and then stopped 
short in a hesitating manner. 

“ Speak on, my son,” said the Abbot ; “ speak with- 
out fear.” 

“ Let me not offend you then,” said Roland, “ when 
I answer that it is even this which our adversaries charge 
against us, when they say, that shaping the means accord- 
ing to the end, we are willing to commit great moral evil 
in order that we may work out eventual good.” 

“ Tlie heretics have played their usual arts on you, 
my son,” said the Abbot ; “ they would willingly deprive 
us of the power of acting wisely and secretly, though 
their possession of superior force forbids our contending 
with them on the terms of equality. They have reduced 
us to a state of exhausted weakness, and now would fain 
proscribe the means by which weakness, through all the 
range of nature, supplies the lack of strength, and de- 
fends itself against its potent enemies. As well might 
10 VOL. II. 


no 


THE ABBOT. 


the hound say to the hare, use not these wily urns to 
escape me, but contend with me in pitched battle, as 
the armed and powerful heretic demand of the down- 
trodden and oppressed Catholic to lay aside the wisdom 
of the serpent, by which alone they may again hope to 
raise up the Jerusalem over which tl)ey weep, and which 
it is their duty to rebuild — But more of this hereafter. 
And now, my son; I command thee on tliy faith to tell me 
truly and particularly what has chanced to thee since we 
parted, and what is the present state of thy conscience. 
Thy relation, our sister Magdalen, is a woman of excel- 
lent gifts, blessed with a zeal which neither doubt nor dan- 
ger can quench ; but yet it is not a zeal altogether ac- 
cording to knowledge; wherefore, my son, 1 would 
willingly be myself thy interrogator and thy counsellor, 
in these days of darkness and stratagem.” 

With the respect which he owed to his first instructor, 
Roland Graeme went rapidly through the events which 
the reader is acquainted with ; and while he disguised 
not from the prelate the impression which had been 
made on his mind by the arguments of the preacher 
Henderson, he accidentally, and almost involuntarily, 
gave his father confessor to understand the influence 
which Catherine Seyton had acquired over him. 

“ It is with joy, 1 discover, my dearest son,” replied 
the Abbot, “ that 1 have arrived in time to arrest thee 
on the verge of the precipice to which thou wert ap- 
proaching. These doubts of which you complain, are 
the weeds which naturally grow up in a strong soil, and 
require the careful hand of the husbandman to eradicate 
them. Thou must study a little volume, which I will 
impart to thee in fitting time, in which, by Our Lady’s 
grace, I have placed in somewhat a clearer light than 
heretofore, the points debated betwixt us and these here- 
tics, who sow among the wheat the same tares which 
were formerly privily mingled with the good seed by the 
Albigenses and the Lollards. But it is not by reason 
alone that you must hope to conquer these insinuations 
of the enemy : it is sometimes by timely resistance, bu: 


THE ABBOT. 


Ill 


oftener by timely flight'. You must shut your ears 
against the arguments of the heresiarch, when circum- 
stances permit you not to withdraw the foot from liis 
company. Anchor your thoughts upon the service of 
Onr Lady, while he is expending in vain his heretical 
sophistry. Are you unable to maintain your attention 
on heavenly objects, think rather on thine own earthly 
pleasures, than tempt Providence and the Saints, by 
giving an attentive ear to the erring doctrine — think of 
thy hawk, thy hound, thine angling-rod, thy sword and 
buckler — think even of Catherine Seyton, rather than 
give thy soul to the lessons of the tempter. Alas ! my 
son, believe not that, worn out with woes, and bent more 
by affliction than by years, I have forgotten the effect of 
beauty over the heart of youth. Even in the watches 
of the night, broken by thoughts of an imprisoned Queen, 
a distracted kingdom, a church laid waste and ruinous, 
come other thoughts than these suggest, and feelings 
which belong to an earlier and happier course of life. 
Be it so — we must bear our load as we may ; and not 
in vain are these passions implanted in our breast, since, 
as now in thy case, they may come in aid of resolutions 
founded upon higher grounds. Yet beware, my son — 
this Catherine Seyton is the daughter of one of Scotland’s 
proudest, as well as most worthy barons ; and thy state 
may not suffer thee, as yet, to aspire so high. But thus 
it is — Heaven works its purposes through human folly ; 
and Douglas’s ambitious affection, as well as thine, shall 
contribute alike to the desired end. 

“ How, my father,” said the page, “ my suspicions 
are then true ! — Douglas loves” — 

“ He does ; and with a love as much misplaced as 
thine own ; but beware of him — cross him not — thwart 
him not.” 

“ Let him not cross or thwart me,” said the page ; 
“ for I will not yield him an inch of way, had he in his 
body the soul of every Douglas, that has lived since the 
time of the Dark Grey Man.”^ 


112 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Nay, have patience idle boy, and reflect that your 
suit can never interfere with his. — But a truce with these 
vanities, and let us better employ the little space which 
still remains to us to spend together. To thy knees, 
my son, and resume the long interrupted duty of con- 
fession ; that, happen what may, the hour may find in thee 
a faithful Catholic, relieved from the guilt of his sins by 
authority of the Holy Church. Could 1 but tell thee, 
Roland, the joy with which I see thee once more put 
thy knee to its best and fittest use ! (^nid dicis^ mifili 
“ Culpas meas,^^ answered the youth ; and according 
to the ritual of the Catholic church, he confessed and 
received absolution, to which was annexed the condition 
of performing certain enjoined penances. 

When this religious ceremony was ended, an old man, 
in the dress of a peasant of the better order, approached 
the arbour and greeted the Abbot — “ I have waited the 
conclusion of your devotions,” he said, “ to tell you the 
youth is sought after by the Chamberlain, and it were 
well be should appear without delay. Holy Saint Fran- 
cis, if the halberdiers were to seek him here, they might 
sorely wrong my garden-plot — they are in office and reck 
not where they tread, were each step on jessamine and 
clove-jilliflowers.” 

“ We will speed him forth, my brother,” said the 
Abbot ; “ but alas ! is it possible that such trifles should 
live in your mind at a crisis so awful as that which is now 
impending ?” 

“ Reverend father,” answered the proprietor of the 
garden, for such he was, “ how oft shall I pray you to 
keep your high counsel for high minds like your own f 
What have you required of me, that 1 have not granted 
unresistingly, though with an aching heart ?” 

“ I would require of you to be yourself, my brother,” 
said the Abbot Ambrosius ; “ to remenber what you 
were, and to what your early vows have bound you.” 

“ I tell thee, father Ambrosius,” replied the gardener, 
the patience of the best saint that ever said pater- 
noster, would be exhausted by the trials to which you 


THE ABBOT. 


113 


have put mine — What I have been, it skills not lo 
speak at present — no one knows belter than yourself, 
father, what I renounced, in hopes to find ease and quiet 
during the remainder of my days — and no one belter 
knows how my retreat has been invaded, my fruit-trees 
broken, my flower-beds trodden down, my quiet fright- 
ened away, and my very sleep driven from my bed, since 
ever this poor Queen, God bless her, hath been sent to 
Lochleven. — 1 blame her not ; being a prisoner, it is 
natural she should wish to get out from so vile a hold, 
w'here there is scarcely any place even for a tolerable gar- 
den, and wdiere the water-mists, as 1 am told, blight all 
the early blossoms — 1 say, I cannot blame her for endeav- 
ouring for her freedom ; but why I should be drawn into 
the scheme — why my harmless arbours, that 1 planted 
with my own hands, should become places of privy con- 
spiracy — why my little quay, which 1 built for my own 
fishing boat, should have become a haven for secret em- 
barkations — in short, why I should be dragged into mat- 
ters where both heading and hanging are like to be the 
issue, 1 profess lo you, reverend father, 1 am totally igno- 
rant.” 

“ My brother,” answered the Abbot, ‘‘ you are wise, 
and ought to know” 

“ 1 am not — 1 am not — I am not wise,” replied the 
horticulturist, pettishly, and slopping his ears with his 
fingers — “ I was never called wise, but when men want- 
ed to engage me in some action of notorious folly.” 

‘‘ But, my good brother,” said the Abbot 

“ 1 am not good neither,” said the peevish gardener ; “ I 
am neither good nor wdse — Had 1 been wise, you would 
not have been admitted here ; and were I good, methinks I 
should send you elsewhere, to hatch plots for destroying 
the quiet of the country. What signifies disputing about 
queen or king, when men may sit at peace — sub umbra 
vitis sui^ and so would I do, after the precept of holy 
writ, were I, as you term me, wise or good. But such 
as I am, my neck is in the yoke, and you make me 
10* VOL. II. 


114 


THE ABBOT. 


draw what weight you list. — Follow me, youngster. 
This reverend father, who makes in his Jackman’s dress 
nearly as reverend a figure as 1 myself, will agree with 
me in one thing at least, and that is, that you have been 
long enough here.” 

“Follow the good father, Roland,” said the Abbot, 
“ and remember my words — a day is approaching that 
will try the temper of all true Scotsmen — may thy heart 
prove faithful as the steel of thy blade !” 

The page bowed in silence, and they parted ; the gar- 
dener, notwithstanding his advanced age, walking on 
before him very briskly, and muttering as he went, partly 
to himself, partly 'to his companion, after the manner of 
old men of weakened intellects — “ When I was great,” 
thus ran his maundering, “ and had my mule and my 
ambling palfrey at command, 1 warrant you I could have 
as well flown through the air as have walked at this pace. 
I had my gout and my rheumatics, and an hundred 
things besides, that hung fetters on my heels ; and now, 
thanks to Our Lady, and honest labour, I can walk with 
any good man of my age in the kingdom of Fife — Fie 
upon it, that experience should be so long in coming!” 

As he was thus muttering, his eye fell upon the branch 
of a pear-tree, which drooped down for want of support, 
and at once forgetting his haste, the old man stopped and 
set seriously about binding it up. Roland Graeme had 
both readiness, neatness of hand, and good nature in 
abundance ; he immediately lent his aid, and in a minute 
or two the bough was supported, and tied up in a way 
perfectly satisfactory to the old man, who looked at it 
with great complaisance. “ They are bergamots,” he 
said, “ and if you will come ashore in autumn, you shall 
taste of them — the like are not in Lochleven Castle — 
the garden there is a poor pinfold, and the gardener, 
Hugh Houkham, hath little skill of his craft — so come 
ashore. Master Page, in autumn, when you w^ould eat 
pears. But what am 1 thinking of — ere that time come, 
they may have given thee sour pears for plums. Take 
an old man’s advice, youth, one who hath seen many 


THE ABBOT. 


115 


days, and sat in higlier places than thou canst hope for — 
bend thy sword into a pruning-hook, and make a dibble 
of thy dagger — thy days shall be the longer and thy 
health the better for it, and come to aid me in my gar- 
den, and I will teach thee the real French fashion of 
imping, which the Southron call graffing. Do this, and 
do it without loss of time, for there is a whirlwind coming 
over the land, and only those shall escape who lie too 
much beneath the storm to have their boughs broken 
by it.” 

So saying, he dismissed Roland Grseme, through a 
different door from that by which he had entered, signed 
a cross, and pronounced a benedicite, as they parted, 
and then, still muttering to himself, retired into the gar- 
den, and locked the door on the inside. 


CHAPTER IX. 


Pray God she prove nol masculine ere long ! 

King Henry VI. 


Dismissed from the old man’s garden, Roland Graeme 
found that a grassy paddock, in which sauntered two 
cows, the property of the gardener, still separated him 
from the village. He paced through it, lost in medita- 
tion upon the words of the Abbot. Father Ambrosius 
had, with success enough, exerted over him that pow- 
erful influence which the guardians and instructors of 
our childhood possess over our more mature youth. 
And yet, when Roland looked back upon what the fath- 
er had said, he could not but suspect that he had rather 
sought to evade entering into the controversy betwixt the 
churches, than to repel the objections and satisfy the 
doubts which the lectures of Henderson had excited. 
“ For this he had no time,” said the page to himself, 


116 


THE ABBOT. 


“ neither have I now calmness and learning sufficient to 
judge upon points of such magnitude. Besides, it were 
base to quit my faith while the wind of lortune sets 
against it, unless I were so placed that my conversion, 
should it take place, were free as light from the imputa- 
tion of self-interest. 1 was bred a Catholic — bred in 
the faith of Bruce and Wallace — I will hold that (aitli 
till time and reason shall convince me that it errs. I 
will serve this poor Queen as a subject should serve an 
imprisoned and wronged sovereign — they who placed rne 
in her service have to blame themselves — they sent me 
hither, a gentleman trained in the paths of loyalty and 
honour, when they should have sought out some truck- 
ling, cogging, double-dealing knave, who would have 
been at once the observant page of the Queen, and the 
obsequious spy of her enemies. Since 1 must choose 
betwixt aiding and betraying her, 1 will decide as be- 
comes her servant and her subject 5 but Catherine Sey- 
ton — Catherine Seyton, beloved by Douglas, and holding 
me on or off as the intervals of her leisure or caprice 
will permit — how shall 1 deal with the coquette r — By 
heaven, when I next have an opportunity, she shall ren- 
der me some reason for her conduct, or 1 will break 
with her for ever!” 

As he formed this doughty resolution, he crossed the 
stile which led out of the little inclosure, and was almost 
iimnediately greeted by Dr. Luke Lundin. 

“ Ha ! my most excellent young friend,” said the 
Doctor, “ from whence come you? — but I note the place. 
— Yes, neighbour Blinkhoolie’s garden is a pleasant ren- 
dezvous, and you are of the age when lads look after a 
bonny lass with one eye, and a dainty plum with another. 
But hey ! you look subtrist and melancholic — I fear the 
maiden has proved cruel, or the plums unripe ; and sure- 
ly, 1 think neighbour Blinkhoolie’s damsons can scarcely 
have been well preserved throughout the winter — he 
spares the saccharine juice on his confects. But cour- 
age, man, there are more Kates in Kinross ; and for the 


THE ABBOT. 


117 


immature fruit, a glass of my double distilled aqua mi 
rahilis — probatum est^ 

The page darted an ireful glance at the facetious phy- 
sician ; but presently recollecting that the name Kate, 
which had provoked his displeasure, was probably but 
introduced for the sake of alliteration, he suppressed his 
wrath, and only asked if the wains had been heard of f 

“ Why, I have been seeking for you this hour, to tell 
you that the stuff is in your boat, and that the boat waits 
your pleasure. Auchtermuchty had only fallen into 
company with an idle knave like himself, and a stoup of 
aquavitae between them. Your boatmen lie on their 
oars, and there have already been made two wefts from 
the warder’s turret, to intimate that those in the castle 
are impatient for your return. Yet there is time for you 
to take a slight repast ; and, as your friend and physi- 
cian, 1 hold it unfit you should face the water-breeze with 
an empty stomach.” 

Roland Graeme had nothing for it but to return, with 
such cheer as he might, to the place where his boat was 
moored on the beach, and resisted all offer of refresh- 
ment, although the Doctor promised that he should pre- 
lude the collation with a gentle appetizer — a decoction of 
herbs, gathered and distilled by himself. Indeed, as 
Roland had not forgotten the contents of his morning 
cup, it is possible that the recollection induced him to 
stand firm in his refusal of all food, to which such an 
unpalatable preface was the preliminary. As they passed 
towards the boat (for the ceremonious politeness of the 
worthy Chamberlain would not permit the page to go 
thither without attendance,) Roland Graeme, amidst a 
group who seemed to be assembled around a party of 
wandering musicians, distinguished, as he thought, the 
dress of Catherine Seyton. He shook himself clear 
from his attendant, and at one spring was in the midst of 
the crowd, and at the side of the damsel. “ Catherine,” 
he wiiispered, “ is it well for you to be still here — will 
you not return to the castle 


118 


THE ABBOT. 


‘‘ To the devil with your Catherines and your cas- 
tles !” answered the maiden, snappishly ; “ have you 
not had time enough already to get rid of your follies ^ 
Begone ! I desire not your farther company, and there 
will be danger in thrusting it upon me.” 

“ Nay — but if there be danger, fairest Catherine,” 
replied Roland, “ why will you not allow me to stay and 
share it with you ?” 

“ Intruding fool,” said the maiden, “ the danger is all 
on thine own side — the risk is, in plain terms, that I 
strike thee on the mouth with the hilt of my dagger.” 
So saying, she turned haughtily from him, and moved 
through the crowd, who gave way in some astonishment 
at the masculine activity with which she forced her way 
among them. 

As Roland, though much irritated, prepared to follow, 
he was grappled on the other side by Doctor Luke Lun- 
din, who reminded him of the loaded boat, of the two 
wefts, or signals with the flag, which had been made 
from the tower, of the danger of the cold breeze to an 
empty stomach, and of the vanity of spending more 
time upon coy wenches and sour plums. Roland was 
thus, in a manner, dragged back to his boat, anrl^oblig- 
ed to launch her forth upon his return to Lochleven 
Castle. 

That little voyage was speedily accomplished, and the 
page was greeted at the landing-place by the severe and 
caustic welcome of old Dryfesdale. “ So, young gal- 
lant, you are come at last, after a delay of six hours, 
and after two signals from the castle ? But, I warrant, 
some idle junketting had occupied you too deeply to 
think of your service or your duty. Where is theaiote 
of the plate and household stuff ? — Pray Heaven it hath 
not been diminished under the sleeveless care of so 
heedless a gadabout !” 

“ Diminished under my care. Sir Steward ?” retorted 
the page angrily ; “ say so in earnest, and by Heaven 
your grey hair shall hardly protect your saucy tongue !” 


THE ABE'JT. 


119 


A truce with your swaggering, young esquire,” re- 
turned the steward ; “ we hav^e bolts and dungeons for 
brawlej-s. ' Go to my lady, and swagger before her it 
thou darest — she will give thee proper cause of offence, 
for she has waited for thee long and impatiently.” 

“ And where then is the Lady of Lochleven said 
the page ; “ for I conceive it is of her thou speakest.” 

“ Ay — of whom else replied Dryfesdale; “ or who 
besides the Lady of Lochleven hath a right to command 
in this castle 

“ The Lady of Lochleven is thy mistress,” said Ro- 
land Graeme ; “ but mine is the Q,ueen of Scotland.” 

The steward looked at him fixedly for a moment, with 
an air in which suspicion and dislike were ill concealed 
by an affectation of contempt. “ The bragging cock- 
chicken,” he said, “ will betray himself by his rash 
crowing. I have marked thy altered manner in tiie 
chapel of late — ay, and your changing of glances at 
meal-time with a certain idle damsel, who, like thyself, 
laughs at all gravity and goodness. There is something 
about you, my master, which should be looked to. But, 
if you would know whether the Lady of Lochleven or 
that other Lady hath right to command thy service, thou 
wilt find them together in the Lady Mary’s anteroom.” 

Roland hastened thither, not unwilling to escape from 
the ill-natured penetration of the old man, and marvel- 
ling at the same time what peculiarity could have occa- 
sioned the Lady of Lochleven’s being in the Queen’s 
apartment at this time of the afternoon, so much con- 
trary to her usual wont. His acuteness instantly pene- 
trated the meaning. She wishes,” he concluded, 

“ to see the meeting betwixt the Queen and me on my 
return, that she may form a guess whether there is any 
private intelligence or understanding betwixt us — I must 
be guarded.” 

With this resolution he entered the parlour, where the 
Queen, seated in her chair, with the Lady Fleming lean- 
ing upon the back of it, had already kept the Lady of 
Lochleven standing in her presence for the space of 


120 


THE ABBOT. 


nearly an hour, to the manifest increase of her very vis- 
ible bad humour. Roland Grasrne, on entering the 
apartment, made a deep obeisance to the Queen and 
another to the lady, and then stood still as if to aw^ait 
their further question. Speaking almost together, the 
Lady Lochleven said, “ So, young man, you are return- 
ed at length 

And then stopped indignantly short, while the Queen 
went on without regarding her — “ Roland, you are wel- 
come home to us — you have proved the true dove and 
not the raven — Yet I am sure 1 could have forgiven 
you, if, once dismissed from this water-circled ark of 
ours, you had never again returned to us. I trust you 
have brought back an olive branch, for our kind and 
worthy hostess has chafed herself much on account of 
your long absence, and we never needed more some 
symbol of peace and reconciliation.” 

“ I grieve I should have been detained, madam,” an- 
swered the page ; “ but from the delay of the person 
intrusted with the matters for which 1 was sent, 1 did not 
receive them till late in the day.” 

“ See you there now,” said the Queen to the Lady 
Lochleven ; “ we could not persuade you, our. dearest 
hostess, that your household goods were in all safe-keep- 
ing and surety. True it is, that we can excuse your 
anxiety, considering that these august apartments are so 
scantily furnished, that we have not been able to offer 
you even the relief of a stool during the long time you 
have afforded us tlie pleasure of your society.” 

“ Tlie will, madam,” said the lady, “ the will to 
offer such accommodation was more wanting than the 
means.” 

“ What !” said the Queen, looking round and affect- 
ing surprise, “there are then stools in this apartment — 
one, two — no less than four, including the broken one — 
a royal garniture ! — we observed them not — will it please 
your Ladyship to sit 

“ No, madam, 1 will soon relieve you of my presence,” 
replied the Lady Lochleven ; “ and, while with you, my 


THE ABBOT. 


121 


aged limbs can still better brook fatigue, than rny mind 
stoop to accept of constrained courtesy.” 

“ Nay, Lady of Loclileven, if ybu take it so deeply,” 
said the Queen, rising and motioning to her own vacant 
chair, “ I would rather you assumed my seat — you are 
not the first of your family who has done so.” 

The Lady of Lochleven curtsied a negative, but 
seemed with much difficulty to suppress the angry an- 
swer which rose to her lips. 

During this sharp conversation, the page’s attention 
bad been almost entirely occupied by the entrance of 
Catherine Seyton, who came from the inner apartment, 
in the usual dress in which she attended upon the Queen, 
and with nothing in her manner which marked either the 
hurry or confusion incident to a hasty change of disguise, 
or the conscious fear of detection in a perilous enter- 
prize. Roland Graeme ventured to make her an obei- 
sance as she entered, but she returned it with an air of 
the utmost indifference, which, in his opinion, was ex- 
tremely inconsistent with the circumstances in which 
they stood towards each other. — Surely, he thought, she 
cannot in reason expect to bully me out of the belief due 
to mine own eyes, as she tried to do concerning the ap- 
parition in the hostelry of Saint Michael’s — I will try if I 
cannot make her feel that this will be but a vain task, 
and that confidence in me is the wiser and safer course 
to pursue. 

These thoughts had passed rapidly through his mind, 
when the Queen, having finished her altercation with the 
lady of the castle, again addressed him — “ What of the 
revels at Kinross, Roland Graeme ? Methought they 
were gay, if 1 may judge from some faint sounds of 
mirth and distant music, which found their way so far as 
these grated windows, and died when they entered them, 
as all that is mirthful must — But thou lookest as sad as 
if thou hadst come from a conventicle of the Hugue- 
nots !” 

11 VOL. II. 


122 


THE ABBOT. 


And so perchance he hath, madam,” replied the 
Lady of Lochleven, at whom tliis side-shaft was launch- 
e<l. “ I trust, amid yonder idle fooleries, there wanted 
not some pouring forth of doctrine to a better purpose 
than that vain mirth, which, blazing and vanishing like 
the crackling of dry thorns, leaves to the fools who love 
it notliing but dust and ashes.” 

“ Mary Fleming,” said the Queen, turning round and 
drawing her mantle about her, “ I would that we had 
the chimney-grate supplied with a faggot or two of these 
same thorns, which the Lady of Lochleven describes so 
well. Methinksthe damp air from the lake, which stag- 
nates in these vaulted rooms, renders them deadly cold.” 

“ Your Grace’s pleasure shall be obeyed,” said the 
Lady of Lochleven ; “ yet may 1 presume to remind 
you that we are now in summer 

“ I thank you for the information, my good lady,” 
said the Queen ; “ for prisoners better learn their cal- 
endar from the mouth of their jailor, than from any 
change they themselves feel in the seasons. — Once more, 
Roland Grceme, what of the revels 

“ They were gay, madam,” said the page, “ but of 
the usual sort, and little worth your Highness’s ear.” 

“ O, you know not,” said the Queen, “how very in- 
dulgent my ear has become to all that speaks of freedom 
and the pleasures of the free. Methinks 1 would rather 
have seen the gay villagers dance their ring round the 
May-pole, than have witnessed the most stately masques 
within the precincts of a palace. The absence of stone- 
walls — the sense that the green turf is under the foot, 
which may tread it free and unrestrained, is worth all 
that art or splendour can add to more courtly revels.” 

“ I trust,” said the Lady Lochleven, addressing the 
page in her turn, “ there were amongst these follies none 
of the riots or disturbances to which they so naturally 
lead r 

Roland gave a slight glance to Catherine Seyton, as if 
to bespeak her attention as he replied, — “ I witnessed no 
offence, madam, worthy of marking — none indeed of 


THE ABBOT. 


123 


any kind, save that a bold damsel made her hand some- 
what too familiar with the cheek of a player-man, and 
ran some risk of being ducked in the lake.” 

As he uttered these words, he cast a hasty glance at 
Catherine ; but she sustained, with the utmost serenity 
of manner and countenance, the hint which he had 
deemed could not have been thrown out before her with- 
out exciting some fear and confusion. 

“ I will cumber your Grace no longer with my pres- 
ence,” said the Lady Lochleven, “ unless you have 
aught to command me.” 

“ Nought, our good hostess,” answered the Queen, 
“ unless it be to pray you, that on another occasion you 
deem it not needful to postpone your better employment 
to wait so long upon us.” 

“ May it please you,” added the Lady Lochleven, 
“ to command this your gentleman to attend us, that 1 
may receive some account of these matters which have 
been sent hither for your Grace’s use?” 

“ We may not refuse what you are pleased to require, 
madam,” answered the Queen. “ Go with the lady, 
Roland, if our commands be indeed necessary to thy 
doing so. We will hear to-morrow the history of thy 
Kinross pleasures. For this night we dismiss thy at- 
tendance.” 

Roland Grseme went with the Lady of Lochleven, 
who failed not to ask him many questions concerning 
what had passed at the sports, to which he rendered such 
answers as were most likely to lull asleep any suspicions 
which she might entertain of his disposition to favour 
Queen Mary, taking especial care to avoid all allusion to 
the apparition of Magdalen Grasme, and of the Abbot 
Ambrosius. At length, after undergoing a long and 
somewhat close examination, he was dismissed with such 
expressions, as, coming from the reserved and stern Lady 
of Lochleven, might seem to express a degree of favour 
and countenance. 

His first care was to obtain some refreshment, which 
was more cheerfully afforded him by a good-natured 


124 


THE ABBOT. 


pantler than by Dryfesdale, who was, on his occasion, 
much disposed to abide by the fashion of Pudding-burn 
House, where 


Tliey who came not the first call, 

Gat no more meat till the next meal. 

When Roland Graeme had finished his repast, having 
his dismissal from the Queen for the evening, and being 
little inclined for such society as the castle afforded, he 
stole into the garden, in which he had permission to spend 
his leisure time, when it pleased him. In this place, the 
ingenuity of the contriver and disposer of the walks had 
exerted itself to make the most of little space, and by- 
screens, both of stone ornamented with rude sculpture, 
and hedges of living green, had endeavoured to give as 
much intricacy and variety as the confined limits of the 
garden would admit. 

Here the young man walked sadly, considering the 
events of the day, and comparing what had dropped 
from the Abbot with what he had himself noticed of the 
demeanour of George Douglas. ‘4t must be so,” was the 
painful but inevitable conclusion at which he arrived. “It 
must be by his aid that she is thus enabled, like a phan- 
tom, to transport herself from place to place, and to ap- 
pear at pleasure on the mainland or on the islet. It 
must be so,” he repeated once more; “with him she holds 
a close, secret, and intimate correspondence, altogether 
inconsistent with the eye of favour which she has some- 
times cast upon me, and destructive to the hopes which 
she must have known these glances have necessarily in- 
spired.” And yet, (for love will hope where reason de- 
spairs,) the thought rushed on his mind, that it was pos- 
sible she only encouraged Douglas’s passion so far as 
might serve her mistress’s interest, and that she was of 
too frank, noble, and candid a nature to hold out to him- 
self hopes which she meant not to fulfil. Lost in these 
various conjectures, he seated himself upon a bank of 
turf, which commanded a view of the lake on the one 


THE AIJljOT. 


125 


side, and on the other of that front of the castle along 
which the Queen’s apartments were situated. 

The sun had now for some time set, and the twilight 
of May was rapidly fading into a serene night. On the 
lake, the expanded water rose and fell, with the slightest 
and softest influence of a southern breeze, which scarce- 
ly dimpled the surface over which it passed. In the 
distance was still seen the dim outline of the island of 
Saint Serf, once visited by many a sandalled pilgrim, as 
the blessed spot trodden by a man of God — now neg- 
lected, or violated, as the refuge of lazy priests, who had 
with justice been compelled to give place to the sheep 
and the heifers of a protestant baron. 

As Roland gazed on the dark speck, amid the lighter 
blue of the waters which surrounded it, the mazes of 
polemical discussion again stretched themselves before 
the eye of his mind. Had these men justly suffered 
their exile as licentious drones, the robbers, at once, and 
disgrace of the busy hive ; or, had the hand of avarice 
and rapine expelled from the temple, not the ribalds who 
polluted, but tlie faithful priests who served the shrine in 
lionour and fidelity ? The arguments of Henderson, in 
this contemplative hour, rose with double force before 
him, and could scarcely be parried by the appeal which 
the Abbot Ambrosius had made from his understanding 
to his feelings, — an appeal which he had felt more forci- 
bly amid the bustle of stirring life, than now when his 
reflections were more undisturbed. It required an effort 
to divert his mind from this embarrassing topic ; and he 
found that he best succeeded by turning his eyes to the 
front of the tower, watching where a twinkling light still 
streamed from the casement of Catherine Seyton’s apart- 
ment, obscured by times for a moment, as the shadow of 
the fair inhabitant passed betwixt the taper and the win- 
dow. At length the light was removed or extinguished, 
and that object of speculation was also withdrawn from 
the eyes of the meditative lover. Dare I confess the 
fact, without injuring his character for ever as a hero of 

11* VOL. II. 


126 


THE ABBOT, 


romance ? These eyes gradually became heavy, spec- 
ulative doubts on the subject of religious controversy, 
and anxious conjectures concerning tlie state of his mis- 
tress’s affections, became confusedly blended together in 
his musings ; the fatigues of a busy day prevailed over 
the harassing subjects of contemplation which occupied 
his mind, and he fell fast asleep. 

Sound were his slumbers, until they were suddenly 
dispelled by the iron tongue of the castle bell, which sent 
its deep and sullen sounds wide over the bosom of the 
lake, and awakened the echoes of Bennarty, the hill 
which descends steeply on its southern bank. Roland 
started up, for this bell was always tolled at ten o’clock, 
as the signal for locking the castle gates, and placing the 
keys under the charge of the seneschal. He therefore 
hastened to the wicket, by which the garden communi- 
cated with the building, and had the mortification just as 
he reached it, to hear the bolt leave its sheath with a dis- 
cordant crash, and enter the stone groove of the door- 
lintel. 

“ Hold, hold,” cried the page, “ and let me in ere you 
lock the wicket.” 

The voice of Dryfesdale replied from within, in his 
usual tone of embittered sullenness, “ The hour is pas- 
sed, fair master — you like not the inside of these walls 
— even make it a complete holiday, and spend the night 
as well as the day out of bounds.” 

“ Open the door,” exclaimed the indignant page, “ or 
by Saint Giles I will make thy gold chain smoke for it !” 

“ Make no alarm here,” retorted the impenetrable 
Dryfesdale, “ but keep thy sinful oaths and silly threats 
for those that regard them — I do mine office, and carry 
the keys to the seneschal. — Adieu, my young master ! 
the cool night air will advantage your hot blood.” 

The steward was right in what he said ; for the cool- 
ing breeze was very necessary to appease the feverish fit 
of anger which Roland experienced, nor did the remedy 
succeed for some time. At length, after some hasty turns 
made through the garden, exhausting his passion in vain 


THE AIIBOT. 


127 


vows of vengeance, Roland Graeme began to be sensible 
that his situation ought rather to be held as matter of 
laughter, than of serious resentment. To one bred a 
sportsman, a night spent in the open air had in it little of 
hardship, and the poor malice of the steward seemed more 
worthy of his contempt than his anger. “1 would to God, 
he said, that the grim old man may always have content- 
ed himself with such sportive revenge. He often looks 
as he were capable of doing us a darker turn.” Return- 
ing, therefore, to the turf-seat which he had formerly oc- 
cupied, and which was partially sheltered by a trim fence 
of green holly, he drew his mantle around him, stretched 
himself at length on the verdant settle, and endeavoured 
to resume that sleep which the castle bell had interrupted 
to so little purpose. 

Sleep, like other earthly blessings, is niggard of its fa- 
vours when most courted. The more Roland invoked 
her aid, the further she fled from his eyelids. He had 
been completely awakened, first by the sounds of the 
bell, and then by his own aroused vivacity of temper, 
and be found it diflicult again to compose himself to slum- 
ber. At length, when his mind was wearied out with a 
maze of unpleasing meditation, he succeeded in coaxing 
himself into a broken repose. This was again dispel- 
led by the voices of two persons who were walking in 
the garden, the sound of whose conversation, after ming- 
ling for some time in the page’s dreams, at length suc- 
ceeded in awaking him thoroughly. He raised himself 
from his reclining posture in the utmost astonishment, 
which the circumstance of hearing two persons at that 
late hour conversing on the outside of the watchfully 
guarded Castle of Lochleven, was so well calculated to 
excite. His first thought was of supernatural beings ; 
bis next, upon some attempt on the part of Queen Mary’s 
friends and followers ; his last was, that George of Doug- 
las, possessed of the keys, and having the means of in- 
gress and egress at pleasure, was availing himself of his 
olfice to hold a rendezvous with Catherine Seyton in the 


128 


THE ABBOT. 


castle garden. He was confirmed in this opinion by 
the tone of the voice, which asked in a low whisper, 
‘‘ Whether all was ready ?” 


/ 


CHAPTER X. 


In some breasts passion lies conceal’d and silent, 

Like war’s swart powder in a castle vault, 

Until occasion, like the linstock, lights it : 

Then comes at once the lightning and the thunder. 

And distant echoes tell that all is rent asunder. 

Old Platj. 

Roland GRiEME, availing himself of a breach in the 
holly screen, and of the assistance of the full moon, which 
was now arisen, had a perfect opportunity, himself unob- 
served, to reconnoitre the persons and the motions of 
those by whom his rest had been thus unexpectedly dis- 
turbed, and his observations confirmed his jealous appre- 
hensions. They stood together in close and earnest con- 
versation within four yards of the place of his retreat, 
and he could easily recognize the tall form and deep voice 
of Douglas, and the no less remarkable dress and tone of 
the page at the hostelry of Saint Michael’s. 

“ I have been at the door of the page’s apartment,” 
said Douglas, “ but he is not there, or he will not answer. 
It is fast bolted on the inside, as is the custom, and we 
cannot pass through it — and what his silence may bode I 
know not.” 

“ You have trusted him too far,” said the other ; “ a 
feather-headed coxcomb, upon whose changeable mind 
and hot brain there is no making an abiding impression.” 

“ It was not I who was willing to trust him,” said Doug- 
las ; “ but 1 was assured he would prove friendly when 

called upon — for” Here he spoke so low that Roland 

lost the tenor of his words, which was the more orovok- 


THE ABBOT. 


129 


ing, as he was fully aware that he was himself the sub- 
ject of tlieir conversation. 

“ Nay,” replied the stranger, more aloud, “ I have on 
my side put him off with fair words, which make fools 
fain — but now, if you distrust him at the push, deal with 
him with your dagger, and so make open passage.” 

“ That were too rash,” said Douglas; “ and, besides, 
as 1 told you, the door of his apartment is shut and bolt- 
ed. 1 will essay again to waken him.” 

Graeme instantly comprehended, that the ladies havittg 
been somehow made aware of his being in the garden, 
had secured the door of the outer room in which he usu- 
ally slept, as a sort of sentinel upon that only access to 
the Queen’s apartments. But then how came Catherine 
Seyton to be abroad, if the Queen and the other lady 
were still within their chambers, and the access to them 
locked and bolted ? — “ 1 will be instantly at the bottom 
of these mysteries,” he said, “ and then thank Mrs. Cath- 
erine, if this be really she, for the kind use which she ex- 
horted Douglas to make of his dagger — they seek tne, as 
I comprehend, and they shall not seek me in vain.” 

Douglas had by this time re-entered the castle by the 
wicket, which was now open. The stranger stood alone 
in the garden walk ; his arms folded on his breast, and 
his eyes cast impatiently up to the moon, as if accusing 
her of betraying him by the magnificence of her lustre. 
Jn a moment Roland Graeme stood before him — “ A 
goodly night,” he said, “ Mrs. Catherine, for a young 
lady to stray forth in disguise, and to meet with men in 
an orchard!” 

“ Hush !” said the stranger page, “ hush, thou foolish 
patch, and tell us in a word if thou art friend or foe.” 

“ How should I be friend to one who deceives me by 
fair words, and who would have Douglas deal with me 
with his poniard replied Roland. 

“ The fiend receive George of Douglas and thee too, 
thou born mad-cap and sworn marplot!” said the other ; 
“ we shall be discovered, and then death is the word.” 


130 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Catherine,” said the page, ‘‘ you have dealt falsely 
and cruelly with me, and the moment of explanation is 
now come — neither it nor you shall escape me !” 

“ iVIadman !” said the stranger, “ 1 am neither Kate 
nor Catherine — the moon shines bright enough surely to 
know the hart from the hind.” 

“ That shift shall not serve you, fair mistress,” said the 
page, laying hold on the lap of the stranger’s cloak ; 
“ this time, at least, 1 will know with whom 1 deal.” 

“ Unhand me,” said she, endeavouring to extricate 
herself from his grasp, and in a tone where anger seem- 
ed to contend with a desire to laugh ; “ use you so little 
discretion towards a daughter of Seyton 

But as Roland, encouraged perhaps by her risibility to 
suppose his violence was not unpardonably oflensive, kept 
hold on her mantle, she said, in a sterner tone of unmix- 
ed resentment, — Madman, let me go ! — there is life 
and death in this moment — 1 would not willingly hurt thee, 
and yet beware !” 

As she spoke she made a sudden effort to escape, and 
in doing so, a pistol which she carried in her hand or 
about her person, went off. 

This warlike sound instantly awakened the well-ward- 
ed castle. The warder blew his horn, and began to toll 
the castle bell, crying out at the same time, “ Fie, trea- 
son ! treason ! cry all ! cry all !” 

The apparition of Catherine Seyton, which the page 
had let loose in the first moment of astonishment, vanish- 
ed in darkness, but the plash of oars was heard, and in a 
second or two, five or six harquebusses and a falconet 
were fired from the battlements of the castle successively, 
as if levelled at some object on the water. Confounded 
with these incidents, no way for Catherine’s protection 
(supposing her to be in the boat which he had heard put 
from the shore) occurred to Roland, save to have re- 
course to George of Douglas. He hastened for this pur- 
pose towards the apartment of the Queen, whence he 
heard loud voices and much trampling of feet. When 
he entered, he found himself added to a confused* and 


THE ABBOT. 


131 


astonished group, which, assembled in that apartment, 
stood gazing upon each other. At the upper end of the 
room stood the Queen, equipped as for a journey, and 
attended not only by the Lady Fleming, but by the om- 
nipresent Catherine Seyton, dressed in the habit of her 
own sex, and bearing in her hand the casket in which 
Mary kept such jewels as she had been permitted to re- 
tain. .At the other end of the hall was the Lady of Loch- 
leven, hastily dressed, as one startled from slumber by 
the sudden alarm, and surrounded by domestics, some 
bearing torches, others bolding naked swords, partizans, 
pistols, or such other weapons as they had caught up in 
the hurry of a night alarm. Betwixt these two parties 
stood George of Douglas, his arms folded on his breast, 
his eyes bent on the ground, like a criminal who knows 
not how to deny, yet continues unwilling to avow, the 
guilt in which he has been detected. 

“ Speak, George of Douglas,” said the Lady of Loch- 
leven ; “ speak, and clear the horrid suspicion which rests 
on thy name. Say ‘ a Douglas was never faithless to his 
trust, and I-am a Douglas.’ Say this, my dearest son, 
and it is all I ask thee to say to clear thy name, even un- 
der such a foul charge. Say it was but the wile of these 
unhappy women, and this false boy, which plotted an es- 
cape so fatal to Scotland — so destructive to thy father’s 
house.” 

“ Madam,” said old Dryfesdale the steward, ‘‘ this 
much do I say for this silly page, that he could not be 
accessary to unlocking the doors, since I myself this night 
bolted him out of the castle. Whoever limned this night- 
piece, the lad’s share in it seems to have been small.” 

“ Thou liest, Dryfesdale,” said the lady, “ and wouldst 
throw the blame on thy master’s house, to save the worth- 
less life of a gipsy boy.” 

“ His death were more desirable to me than his life,” 
answered the steward, sullenly ; “ but the truth is the 
truth.” 

At these words Douglas raised his head, drew up his 
figure to its full height, and spoke boldly and sedately. 


132 


THE ABBOT. 


as one whose resolution was taken. “ Let no life be en- 
dangered for rne. 1 alone” 

“ Douglas,” said the Queen, interrupting him, “ art 
thou mad ? Speak not, 1 charge you.” 

“ Madam,” he replied, bowing with the deepest re- 
spect, “ gladly would 1 obey your commands, but they 
must have a victim, and let it be the true one. — Yes, 
madam,” he continued addressing the Lady ofLochleven, 
“ J alone am guilty in this matter. If the word of a Doug- 
las has yet any weight with you, believe me that this boy 
is innocent ; and, on your conscience I charge you do 
him no wrong : nor let the Queen suffer hardship for em- 
bracing the opportunity of freedom which sincere loyalty 
— which a sentiment yet deeper — offered to her accept- 
ance. Y^'es ! 1 had planned the escape of the most beau- 
tiful, the most persecuted of women ; and far from re- 
gretting that 1, for a while deceived the malice of her 
enemies, I glory in it, and am most willing to yield up 
life itself in her cause.” 

“ Now, may God have compassion on my age,” said 
the Lady of Lochleven, “ and enable me to bear this load 
of affliction ! O Princess, born in a luckless hour, when 
will you cease to be the instrument of seduction and of 
ruin to all who approach you ! O ancient house of Loch- 
leven, famed so long for birth and honour, evil was the 
hour which hrona;ht the deceiver under thy roof!” 

“ Say not so, madatn,” replied her grandson ; “ the 
old honours of the Douglas line will be outshone, when 
one of its descendants dies for the most injured of queens 
— for the most lovely of women.” 

“ Douglas,’- said the Queen, “ must I at this moment 
— ay, even at this moment, when 1 may lose a faithlul 
sid)ject forever, chide thee for forgetting what is due to 
me as thy Queen 

“ Wretched boy,” said the distracted Lady of Loch- 
leven, “ hast thou fallen even thus far into the snare of 
this Moabitish woman ? — hast thou bartered thy name, 
thy allegiance, thy knightly oath, thy duty to thy parents, 
thy country, and thy God, for a feigned tear, or a sickly 


THE ABBOT. 


133 


smile, from lips which flattered the infirm Francis — lured 
to death the idiot Darnley — read luscious poetry with the 
minion Chastelar — mingled in the lays of love which were 
sung by the beggar Rizzio — and which were joined in 
rapture to those of the foul and licentious Bothwell 

“ Blaspheme not, madam !” said Douglas ; — “ nor 
you, fair Queen, and virtuous as fair, chide at this mo- 
ment the presumption of thy vassal ! Think not that 
the mere devotion of a subject could have moved me to 
the part I have been perfoianing. Well you deserve that 
each of your lieges should die for you ; but 1 have done 
more — have done that to which love alone could compel 
a Douglas — I have dissembled. Farewell, then. Queen 
of all hearts, and Empress of that of Douglas ! — When 
you are freed from this vile bondage — as freed you shall 
be, if justice remains in Heaven — and when you load 
with honours and titles the happy man who shall deliver 
you, cast one thought on him whose heart would have 
despised every reward for a kiss of your hand — cast one 
thought on his fidelity, and drop one tear on his grave.” 
And throwing himself at her feet, he seized her hand, 
and pressed it to his lips. 

“ This before my face !” exclaimed the Lady of Loch- 
leven — “ wilt thou court thy adulterous paramour before 
the eyes of a parent ? — Tear them asunder, and put him 
under strict ward ! Seize him, upon your lives !” she 
added, seeing that her attendants looked on each other 
with hesitation. 

“ They are doubtful,” said Mary. “ Save thyself, 
Douglas, I command thee !” 

He started up from the floor, and only exclaiming, 
“ My life or death are yours, and at your disposal !” — 
drew his sword, and broke through those who stood be- 
twixt him and the door. The enthusiasm of his onset 
was too sudden and too lively to have been resisted by 
anything short of the most decided opposition ; and as 
he was both loved and feared by his father’s vassals, none 
of them would offer him any actual injury. 

12 VOL. II. 


134 


THE ABBOT. 


The Lady of Lochleven stood astonished at this sud- 
den escape — “ Am I surrounded,” she said, “ by traitors? 
Upon him, villains ! — pursue, stab, cut him down !” 

“ He cannot leave the island, madam,” said DryTes- 
dale, interfering ; “ I have the key of the boat-chain.” 

But two or three voices of those who pursued from 
curiosity, or command of their mistress, exclaimed from 
below, that he had cast himself into the lake. 

“ Brave Douglas still !” exclaimed the Queen — “ O, 
true and noble heart, that prefers death to imprisonment!” 

“ Fire upon him !” said the Lady of Lochleven ; “ if 
there be here a true servant of his father, let him shoot 
the runagate dead, and let the lake cover our shame !” 

The report of a gun or two was heard, but they were 
probably shot rather to obey the Lady, than with any 
purpose of hitting the mark ; and Randal immediately 
entering, said, that Master George had been taken up by 
a boat from the castle, which lay at a little distance. 

“ Man a barge, and pursue them !” said the Lady. 

“ It were quite vain,” said Randal ; “ by this time 
they are half way to shore, and a cloud has come over 
the moon.” 

“ And has the traitor then escaped said the Lady, 
pressing her hands against her forehead with a gesture 
of despair ; “ the honour of our house is forever gone, and 
all will be deemed accomplices in this base treachery!” 

“ Lady of Lochleven,” said Mary, advancing towards 
her, “ you have this night cut off my fairest hopes — You 
have turned my expected freedom into bondage, and 
dashed away the cup of joy in the v’^ery instant 1 was ad- 
vancing it to my lips — and yet I feel for your sorrow the 
pity that you deny to mine — Gladly would I comfort you 
if I might ; but as 1 may not, 1 would at least part from 
you in charity.” 

“ Away, proud woman !” said the Lady ; “ who ever 
knew so well as thou to deal the deepest wounds under 
the pretence of kindness and courtesy ? — Who, since the 
great traitor, could ever so betray with a kiss 


THE ABBOT. 


135 


‘‘ Lady Douglas of Lochleven,” said the Queen, “ in 
this moment thou canst not offend me — no, not even by 
thy coarse and unwomanly language, held to me in the 
presence of menials and armed retainers. I have this 
night owed so much to one member of the house of Loch- 
leven, as to cancel whatever its mistress can do or say 
in the wildness of her passion.” 

“ We are bounden to you. Princess,” said Lady Loch- 
leven, putting a strong constraint on herself, and passing 
from her tone of violence to that of bitter irony ; “ our 
poor house hath been but seldom graced with royal smiles, 
and will hardly, with my choice, exchange their rough 
honesty for such court-honour as Mary of Scotland has 
now to bestow.” 

“ They,” replied Mary, “ who knew so well how to 
take^ may think themselves excused from the obligation 
implied in receiving. And that I have now little to offer, 
is the fault of the Douglasses and their allies.” 

“ Fear nothing, madam,” replied the Lady of Loch- 
leven, in the same bitter tone, “you retain an exchequer 
which neither your own prodigality can drain, nor your 
offended country deprive you of. While you have fair 
words and delusive smiles at command, you need no 
other bribes to lure youth to folly.” 

The Queen cast a not ungratified glance on a large 
mirror, which hanging on one side of the apartment, and 
illuminated by the torch-light, reflected her beautiful face 
and person. “ Our hostess growls complaisant,” she said, 
“ my Fleming ; we had not thought that grief and cap- 
tivity had left us so well stored with that sort of wealth 
which ladies prize most dearly.” 

“ Your Grace will drive this severe woman frantic,” 
said Fleming, in a low tone. “ On my knees I implore 
you to remember she is already dreadfully offended, and 
that we are in her power.” 

“ 1 will not spare her, Fleming,” answered the Queen ; 
“ it is against my nature. She returned my honest sym- 
pathy with insult and abuse, and I will gall her in return 


136 


THE ABBOT. 


— If her words are too blunt for answer, let her use her 
poniard if she dare!” 

“ The Lady Loehleven,” said the Lady Fleming 
aloud, “ would surely do well now to withdraw, and to 
leave her Grace to repose.” 

“ Ay,” replied the Lady, “ or to leave her Grace, and 
her Grace’s minions, to think what silly fly they may next 
wrap their meshes about. My eldest son is a widower — 
were he not more worthy the flattering hopes with which 
you have seduced his brother.^ — True, the yoke of mar- 
riage has been already thrice fitted on — but the church of 
Rome calls it a sacrament, and its votaries may deem it 
one in which they cannot too often participate.” 

“ And the votaries of the church of Geneva,” replied 
Mary, colouring with indignation, “ as they deem mar- 
riage no sacrament, are said at times to dispense with the 
holy ceremony.’” — Then, as if afraid of the consequen- 
ces of this home allusion to the errors of Lady Lochle- 
ven’s early life, the Queen added, “ Come, my Fleming, 
we grace her too much by this altercation, we will to our 
sleeping apartment. If she would disturb us again to- 
night, she must cause the door to be forced.” So say- 
ing, she retired to her bed-room, followed by her two 
women. 

Lady Lochleven, stunned as it were by this last sar- 
casm, and not the less deeply incensed that she had 
drawn it upon herself, remained like a statue on the spot 
which she had occupied, when she received an affront 
so flagrant. Dryfesdale and Randal endeavoured to 
rouse her to recollection by questions. 

“ What is your honourable ladyship’s pleasure in the 
premises 

“ Shall we not double the sentinels, and place one up- 
on the boats, and another in the garden said Randal. 

“ Would you that despatches were sent to Sir William 
at Edinburgh, to acquaint him with what has happened 
demanded Dryfesdale ; “ and ought not the place of 
Kinross to be alarmed, lest there be force upon the shores 
of the lake 


THE ABBOT. 


137 


“ Do all as thou wilt,” said the Lady, collecting her- 
self, and about to depart. “ Thou hast the name of a 
good soldier, Dryfesdale, take all precautions. — Sacred 
heaven ! that I should be thus openly insulted !” 

“ Would it be your pleasure,” said Dryfesdale, hesi- 
tating, “ that this person — this lady — be more severely 
restrained 

“ No, vassal !” answered the Lady indignantly, “ my 
revenge stoops not to so low a gratification. But 1 
will have more worthy vengeance, or the tomb of my 
ancestors shall cover my shame!” 

“ And you shall have it, madam,” replied Dryfesdale 
— “ Ere two suns go down, you shall term yourself am- 
ply revenged.” 

The lady made no answer — perhaps did not hear his 
words, as she presently left the apartment. By the com- 
mand of Dryfesdale, the rest of the attendants were dis- 
missed, some to do the duty of guard, others to their re- 
pose. The steward himself remained after they had all 
departed ; and Roland Graeme, who was alone in tiie 
apartment, was surprised to see the old soldier advance 
towards him with an air of greater cordiality than he had 
ever before assumed to him, but which sat ill on his 
scowling features. 

“ Youth,” he said, “ I have done thee some wrong — 
it is thine own fault, for thy behaviour hath seemed as 
light to me as the feather thou wearest in thy hat ; and 
surely thy fantastic apparel, and idle humour of mirth and 
folly, have made me construe thee something harshly. 
But 1 saw this night from my casement, (as 1 looked out 
to see how thou hadst disposed of thyself in the garden,) 
I saw, 1 say, the true efforts which thou didst make to 
detain the companion of the perfidy of him who is no 
longer worthy to be called by his father’s name, but must 
be cut off from his house like a rotten branch. I was 
just about to come to thy assistance when the pistol went 
off ; and the warder, (a false knave, whom I suspect to 
be bribed for the nonce,) saw himself forced to give the 
12* VQL. II. 


138 


THE ABBOT. 


alarm, which, perchance, till tlien he had wilfully with- 
held. To atone, therefore, for my injustice towards you, 
I would willingly render you a courtesy, if you would 
accept of it from my hands.” 

“ May I first crave to know what it is ?” replied the 
page. 

“ Simply to carry the news of this discovery to Holy- 
rood, where thou mayest do thyself much grace, as well 
with the Earl of Morton and the Regent himself, as with 
Sir William Douglas, seeing thou hast seen the matter 
from end to end, and borne faithful part therein. The 
making thine own fortune will be thus lodged in ihine own 
hand, when I trust thou will estrange thyself from foolish 
vanities, and learn to walk in this world as one who thinks 
upon the next.” 

“ Sir Steward,” said Roland Graeme, “ I thank you 
for your courtesy, bull may not do your errand. I pass 
that I am the Queen’s sworn servant, and may not be of 
counsel against her. But, setting this apart, methinks it 
were a bad road to Sir William of Lochleven’s favour, to 
be the first to tell him of his son’s defection — neither 
would the Regent be over well pleased to hear the infi- 
delity of his vassal, nor Morton to learn the falsehood of 
his kinsman.” 

“ Um !” said the steward, making that inarticulate 
sound which expresses surprise mingled with displeasure. 
“ Nay, then, even fly where ye list ; for, giddy-pated as 
ye may be, you know how to bear you in the world.” 

“ 1 will show you my system is less selfish than ye 
think for,” said the page ; “ for 1 hold truth and mirth 
to he better than gravity and cunning — ay, and in the end 
to be a match for them. — You never loved me less. Sir 
Steward, than you do at this moment. I know you will 
give me no real confidence, and I am resolved to accept 
no false protestations as current coin. Resume your old 
course — suspect me as much and watch me as closely as 
you will, 1 bid you defiance — you have met with your 
match.” 


THE ABBOT. 


139 


“ By Heaven, young man,” said the steward, with a 
look of bitter malignity, “ if thou darest to attempt any 
treachery towards the house of Loclileven, thy head shall 
blacken in the sun from the warder’s turret !” 

“ He cannot commit treachery who refuses trust,” said 
tlie page ; “ and for my head, it stands as securely on 
mine own shoulders, as on any turret that ever mason 
built.” 

“ Farewell, thou prating and speckled pie,” said 
Dryfesdale, “ that- art so vain of thine idle tongue and 
variegated coat ! Beware trap and lime-twig.” 

“ And fare thee well, thou hoarse old raven,” answer- 
ed the page ; “ thy solemn flight, sable hue, and deep 
croak, are no charms against bird-bolt or hail-shot, and 
that thou mayest find — It is open war betwixt us, each for 
the cause of our mistress, and God show the right !” 

“ Amen, and defend his own people !” said the stew'- 
ard. “I will let my Mistress know what addition thou 
hast made to this mess of traitors. Good night, Mon- 
sieur Feather-pate.” 

“ Good night. Seignior Sowersby,” replied the page ; 
and, when the old man departed, he betook himself to rest. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Poison’d — ill fare! -dead, forsook, castoff! 

King John. 

However weary Roland Graeme might be of the 
Castle of Lochleven — however much he might wish that 
the plan for Mary’s escape had been perfected, I question 
if he ever awoke with more pleasing feelings than on the 
morning after George Douglas’s plan for accomplishing 
her deliverance had been frustrated. In the first place, 
he had the clearest conviction that he had misunderstood 


140 


THE ABBOT. 


the innuendo of the Abbot, and that the affections of 
Douglas were fixed, not on Catherine Seyton, but on the 
Queen ; and in the second place, from the sort of ex- 
planation which had taken place betwixt the stew ard and 
him, he felt himself at liberty, without any breach of 
honour towards the family of Lochleven, to contribute 
his best aid to any scheme which should in future be 
formed for the Queen’s escape ; and, independently of 
the good-will which he himself had to the enterprize, he 
knew he could find no surer road to the favour of Cath- 
erine Seyton. He now sought but an opportunity to in- 
form her that he had dedicated himself to this task, and 
fortune was propitious in affording him one which was 
unusually favourable. 

At the ordinary hour of breakfast, it was introduced 
by the steward with his usual forms, who, as^ soon as it 
was placed on the board in the inner apartment, said to 
Roland Graeme, with a glance of sarcastic import, “ I 
leave you, my young sir, to do the office of sewer — it has 
been too long rendered to the Lady Mary by one. belong- 
ing to the house of Douglas.” 

“ Were it the prime and principal who ever bore the 
name,” said Roland, “ the office were an honour to him.” 

The steward departed without replying to this bravade, 
otherwise than by a dark look of scorn. Graeme, thus 
left alone, busied himself as one engaged in a labour of 
love, to imitate, as well as he could, the grace and cour- 
tesy with which George of Douglas was wont to render 
his ceremonial service at meals to the Queen of Scotland. 
There was more than youthful vanity, — there was a gen- 
erous devotion in the feeling with which he took up the 
task, as a brave soldier assumes the place of a comrade 
who has fallen in the front of battle. “ I am now,” he 
said, “ their only champion ; and, come weal, come woe, 
I will be, to the best of my skill and power, as faithful, 
as trust-worthy, as" brave as any Douglas of them all 
could have been.” 

At this moment Catherine Seyton entered alone, con- 
trary to her custom 5 and not less contrary to her cus- 


THE ABBOT. 


141 


tom, slie entered with her kerchief at her eyes. Roland 
Graeme approached her with beating heart and with down- 
cast eyes, and asked her in a low and hesitating voice, 
whether the Queen were well ? 

“ Can you suppose it said Catherine ; “ think you 
her heart and body are framed of steel and iron, to en- 
dure the cruel disappointment of yester even, and the in- 
famous taunts of yonder puritanic hag f — Would to God 
that I were a man, to aid her more effectually !” 

“ If those who carry pistols, and batons, and poniards,” 
said the page, “ are not men, they are at least Amazons, 
and that is as formidable.” 

“ You are welcome to the flash of your wit, sir,” re- 
plied the damsel ; “ I am neither in spirits to enjoy, or 
to reply to it.” 

“ Well then,” said the page, “list to me in all serious 
truth. And, first, let me say, that the gear last night had 
been smoother, had you taken me into your counsels.” 

“ And so we meant ; but who could have guessed that 
Master Page should choose to pass all night in the gar- 
den, like some rnoon-stricken knight in a Spanish ro- 
mance — instead of being in his bed-room, when Douglas 
came to hold communication with him on our project 

“ And why,” said the page, “ defer to so late a mo- 
ment so important a confidence 

“ Because your communications with Henderson, and 
— with pardon — the natural impetuosity and fickleness of 
your disposition, made us dread to intrust you with a se- 
cret of such consequence, till the last moment.” 

“ And why at the last moment said the page, of- 
fended at this frank avowal ; “ why at that, or any other 
moment, since 1 had the misfortune to incur so much 
suspicion 

“ Nay — now you are angry again,” said Catherine ; 
“ and to serve you aright 1 should break off this talk ; 
but I will be magnanimous, and answer your question. 
Know, then, our reason for trusting you was two-fold. 
In the first place, we could scarce avoid it, since you 


142 


THE ABBOT. 


slept in the room through which we had to pass. In the 
second place” 

“ Nay,” said the page, “ you may dispense with a 
second reason, when the first makes your confidence in 
me a case of necessity.” 

“ Good now, hold thy peace,” said Catherine. “ In 
the second place, as 1 said before, there is one foolish 
person among us, who believes that Roland Grteme’s 
heart is warm, though his head is giddy — that his blood 
is pure, though it boils too hastily — and that his faith and 
honour are true as the load-star, though his tongue 
sometimes is far less than discreet.” 

This avowal Catherine repeated in a low tone, with 
her eyes fixed on the floor, as if she shunned the glance 
of Roland while she suffered it to escape her lips — “ And 
this single friend,” exclaimed the youth in rapture ; “ this 
only one who would do justice to the poor Roland Grasme, 
and whose own generous heart taught her to distinguish 
between follies of the brain and faults of the heart — Will 
you not tell me, dearest Catherine, to whom I owe my 
most grateful, my most heart-felt thanks .^” 

“ Nay,” said Catherine, wuth her eyes still fixed on the 
ground, “ if your own heart tell you not” 

“ Dearest Catherine!” said the page, seizing upon her 
hand, and kneeling on one knee. 

“ If your own heart, I say, tell you not,” said Cath- 
erine, gently disengaging her hand, “ it is very ungrate- 
ful ; for since the maternal kindness of the Lady Flem- 
ing” — 

The page started on his feet. “ By heaven, Catherine, 
your tongue wears as many disguises as your person! 
But you only mock me, cruel girl. You know the Lady 
Fleming has no more regard for any one, than hath the 
forlorn princess who is wrought into yonder piece of old 
figured court-tapestry.” 

“ It may be so,” said Catherine Seyton, “ but you 
should not speak so loud.” 

“ Pshaw I” answered the page, but at the same time 
lowering his voice, “ she cares for no one but herself and 


THE ABBOT. 


143 


the Queen. And you know, besides, there is no one of 
you whose opinion I value, if I have not your own. No 
— not that of Queen Mary herself.” 

“ The more shame for you, if it be so,” said Cath- 
erine with great composure. 

“ Nay, but, fair Catherine,” said the page, “ why will 
you thus damp my ardour, when I am devoting myself, 
body and soul, to the cause of your mistress.” 

“ It is because in doing so,” said Catherine, “ you de- 
base a cause so noble, by naming along with it any lower 
or more selfish motive. Believe me,” she said, with 
kindling eyes, and while the blood mantled on her cheek, 
“ they think vilely and falsely of women — I mean of 
those who deserve the name — who deem that they love 
the gratification of their vanity, or the mean purpose of 
engrossing a lover’s admiration and affection, belter than 
they love the virtue and honour of the man they may be 
brought to prefer. He that serves his religion, his prince, 
and his country, with ardour and devotion, need not plead 
his cause with the common-place rant of romantic pas- 
sion — the woman whom he honours with his love, be- 
comes his debtor, and her corresponding affection is en- 
gaged to repay his glorious toil.” 

“ You hold a glorious prize for such toil,” said the 
youth, bending his eyes on her with enthusiasm. 

“ Only a heart which knows how to value it,” said 
Catherine. “ He that should free this injured Princess 
from these dungeons, and set her at liberty among her loyni 
and warlike nobles, whose hearts are burning to wel- 
come her — where is the maiden in Scotland, whom the 
love of such a hero would not honour, were she sprung 
from the blood royal of the land, and he the offspring of 
the poorest cottager that ever held a plough.” 

“ I am determined,” said Roland, “to take the ad- 
venture. Tell me first, however, fair Catherine, and 
speak it as if you were confessing to the priest — this 
poor Queen, I know she is unhappy — but, Catherine, do 
you hold her innocent She is accused of murder.” 

“ Do J hold the lamb guilty, because it is assailed by 


144 


THE ABBOT. 


the wolf?” answered Catherine ; “ do 1 hold yonder 
sun polluted, because an earih-dauip sullies his beams?” 

The page sighed and looked down. “ Would my con- 
viction were as deep as thine ! But one thing is clear, 
that in this captivity she hath wrong — She rendered her- 
self up on a capitulation, and the terms have been re- 
fused her — 1 will embrace her quarrel to the death.” 

“ Will you — will you, indeed ?” said Catherine, tak- 
ing his hand in her turn. “ O be but firm in mind, as 
thou art bold in deed and quick in resolution ; keep but 
thy plighted faith, and after ages shall honour thee as the 
saviour of Scotland!” 

“ But when I have toiled successfully to win that 
Leah, Honour, thou wilt not, rny Catherine,” said the 
page, “ condemn me to a new term of service for that 
Rachel, Love ?” 

“ Of that,” said Catherine, again extricating her hand 
from his grasp, “ we shall have full time to speak ; but 
Honour is the elder sister, and must be won the first.” 

“ I may not win her,” answered the page ; “ but I 
will venture fairly for her, and man can do no more. 
And know, fair Catherine, for you shall see the very se- 
cret thought of my heart, that not Honour only — not 
only that other and fairer sister, whom you frown on me 
for so much as mentioning — but the stern commands of 
duty also, compel me to aid the Queen’s deliverance.” 

“ Indeed !” said Catherine ; “ you were wont to have 
doubts on that matter.” 

“ Ay, but her life was not then threatened,” replied 
Roland. 

“ And isvit now more endangered than heretofore ?” 
asked Catherine Seyton, in anxious terror. 

“ Be not alarmed,” said the page ; “but you heard 
the terms on which your Royal Mistress parted with the 
Lady of Lochleven ? 

“ Too well — but too well,” said Catherine ; “ alas 1 
that she cannot rule her princely resentment, and re- 
frain from encounters like these !” 

“ That hath passed betwixt them,” said Rol'and, “ for 


THE ABBOT. 


145 


, which woman never forgives woman. I saw the Lady’s 
brow turn pale, and then black, when, before all the 
menzie, and in her moment of power, the Queen hum- 
bled her to the dust by taxing her with her shame. And 
1 heard the oath of deadly resentment and revenge which 
she muttered in the ear of one, who by his answer, will, 
1 judge, be but too ready an executioner of her will.” 

“ You terrify me,” said Catherine. 

“ Do not so take it — call up the masculine part of 
your spirit — we will counteract and defeat her plans, be 
they dangerous as they may. Why do you look upon 
me thus and weep ?” 

“ Alas !” said Catherine, “ because you stand there 
before me a living and breathing man, in all the adven- 
turous glow and enterprize of youth, yet still possessing 
the frolic spirits of childhood — there you stand, full alike 
of generous enterprize and childish recklessness ; and if 
to-day, to-morrow, or some such brief space, you lie a 
mangled and lifeless corpse upon the floor of these hate- 
ful dungeons, who but Catherine' Seyton will be the 
cause of your brave and gay career being broken short 
as you start from the goal !’ Alas ! she whom you have 
chosen to twine your wreath, may too probably have to 
work your shroud.” 

“ And be it so, Catherine,” said the page, in "the full 
glow’ of youthful enthusiasm ; “ and do thou work my 
shroud ! and if thou grace it with such tears as fall npw 
at the thought, it will honour my remains more than an 
earl’s mantle would my living body. But shame on this 
faintness of heart ! the time craves a firmer mood — Be 
a woman, Catherine, or rather be a man — thou canst be 
a man if thou wilt.” 

' Catherine dried her tears, and endeavoured to smile. 

“ You must not ask me,” she said, “ about that which 
so much disturbs your mind ; you shall know all in time 
— nay you should know all now, but that — Hush ! here 
comes the Queen.” 

Mary entered from her apartment, paler than usual, and 
13 VOL. II. 


146 


THE ABBOT. 


ap(?arent]y exhausted by a sleepless night, and by the pain- 
ful thoughts which had ill supplied the place of repose ; 
yet "the languor of her looks W'as so far from impairing her 
beauty, that it only substituted the frail delicacy of the 
lovely woman for the majestic grace ofthe Queen. Con- 
trary to her wont, her toilet liad been very hastily des- 
patched, and her hair, which was usually dressed by 
Lady Fleming with great care, escaping from beneath 
the head-tire, which had been hastily adjusted, fell in 
long and luxuriant tresses of Nature’s own curling, over 
a neck and bosom which were somewhat less carefully 
veiled than usual. 

As she stepped over the threshold of her apartment, 
Catherine liastily drying her tears, ran to meet her Royal 
IMistress, and having first kneeled at her feet, and kissed 
her hand, instantly rose, and placing herself on the other 
side of the Queen, seemed anxious to divide with the Lady 
Fleming the honour of supporting and assisting her. The 
page, on his part, advanced, and put in order the chair 
of state, which she usually occupied, and having placed 
the cushion and foot- stool for her accommodation, step- 
ped back, and stood ready for service in the place usu- 
ally occupied by his predecessor, the young Seneschal. 
Mary’s eye rested an instant on him, and could not but 
remark the change of persons. Her’s w’as not the fe- 
male heart which could refuse compassion at least to a 
gallant youth who had suffered in her cause, although he 
had been guided in his cnterprize by a too presumptuous 
passion ; and the words “ Poor Douglas !” escaped 
from her lips, perhaps unconsciously, as she leant Iterself 
back in her chair, and put the kerchief to her eyes. 

‘‘Yes, gracious madam,” said Catherine, assuming a 
cheerful manner, in order to cheer her Sovereign, “ our 
gallant knight is indeed banished — the adventure was not 
reserved for him, but he has left behind him a youthful 
Esquire, as much devoted to your Grace’s service, and 
who, by me, makes you tender of his hand and sword.” 

“ If they may in aught avail your Grace,” said Roland 
Groerne, bowing profoundly. 


THE ABBOT,. 


147 


“Alas !” said the Queen ; “what needs this, Cath- 
erine ? — why prepare new victims to be involved in, and 
overwlielmed by my cruel fortune ? — were we not better 
cease to struggle, and ourselves sink in the tide without 
further resrstauce, than thus drag into destruction with 
us every generous heart which makes an effort in our 
favour ? — I have had but too much of plot and intrigue 
around me, since I was stretclied an orphan child in my 
very cradle, while contending nobles strove which should 
rule in the name of the unconscious innocent. Surely 
time it were that all this busy and most dangerous coil 
should end. “Let me call my prison a convent, and my 
seclusion a voluntary sequestration of myself from the 
world and its ways!” 

“ Speak not thus, madam, before your faithful ser- 
vants,” said Catherine, “ to discourage their zeal at once, 
and to break their hearts. Daughter of kings, be not 
in this hour so unkingly — Come Roland, and let us, the 
youngest of her followers, show ourselves worthy of her 
cause — let us kneel before her foot-stool, and implore 
her to be her own magnanimous self.” And leading 
Roland Graeme to the Queen’s seat, they both kneeled 
down before her. Mary raised herself in her chair, and 
sat erect, while extending one hand to be kissed by the 
page, she arranged with the other the clustering locks 
which shaded the bold yet lovely brow of the high-spirit- 
ed Catherine. 

“ Alas ! ma mignone,'’' she said, for so in fondness 
she often called her young attendant, “ that you should 
thus desperately mix with my unhappy fate the fortune 
of your young lives ! — Are they not a lovely couple, 
my Fleming? and is it not heart-rending to think that I 
must be their ruin 

“ Not so,” said Roland GraBme, “ it is we, gracious 
Sovereign, who will be your deliverers.” 

“ Ex oribus parvulorum /” said the Queen, looking 
upward ; “ if it is by the mouth of these children that 
Heaven calls me to resume the stately thoughts which 


148 


THE ABBOT. 


become my birth and my rights, thou wilt grant them 
thy protection, and to me the power of rewarding tiieir 
zeal!” — Then turning to Fleming, she instantly added, 
— “ Thou knowest, my friend, whether to make those 
who have served me happy, was not ever Mary’s favour- 
ite pastime. When 1 have been rebuked by the stern 
preachers of the Calvinistic heresy — when 1 have seen 
the fierce countenances of my nobles averted from me, 
has it not been because I mixed in the harmless pleas- 
ures of the young and gay, and rather for the sake ot 
their happiness than my own, have mingled in the masque, 
the song, or the dance, with the youth of my household? 
Well, I repent not of it — though Knox termed it sin, and 
Morton degradation — I was happy, because 1 saw happi- 
ness around me ; and wo betide the wretched jealousy 
that can extract guilt out of the overflowings of an un- 
guarded gaiety 1 — Fleming, if we are restored to our 
throne, shall we not have one blithesome day at a blithe- 
some bridal, of which we must now name neither the 
bride nor the bridegroom ? but that bridegroom shall have 
the barony of Blairgowrie, a fair gift even for a Queen to 
give, and that bride’s chaplet shall be twined with the 
fairest pearls that ever were found in the depths of Loch- 
lomond ; and thou thyself, Mary Fleming, the best dress- 
er of tires that ever busked the tresses of a Queen, and 
W'ho would scorn to touch those of any woman of lower 
rank, — thou thyself shalt for my love twine them into 
the bride’s tresses. — Look, my Fleming, suppose them 
such clustered locks as those of our Catherine, they would 
not put shame upon thy skill.” 

So saying, she passed her hand fondly over the head 
of her youthful favourite, while her more aged attendant 
replied despondently, “ Alas ! madam, your thoughts 
stray far from home.” 

“They do, my Fleming,” said the Queen, “ but is it 
well or kind in you to call them back f — God knows, 
they have kept the perch this night but too closely — 
Come, I will recall the gay vision, were it but to punish 
them. Yes, at that blithesome bridal, Mary herself shall 


TUE ABBOT. 


149 


forget the weight of sorrows, and the toil of state, and 
herself once more lead a measure. — At whose wed- 
ding was it that we last danced, my Fleming.^ I think 
care has troubled my memory — yet something of it I 
should remember — canst thou not aid me f — 1 know 
thou canst.” 

“ Alas ! madam,” replied the Lady — 

“ What !” said Mary, “ wilt thou not help us so far ? 
this is a peevish adherence to thine own graver opinion, 
which holds our talk as folly. But thou art court-bred, 
and wilt well understand me when 1 say the Queen 
commands Lady Fleming to tell her where she led the 
last branle,^^ 

VVith a face deadly pale, and a. mien as if she were 
about to sink into the earth, the court-bred dame, no 
longer daring to refuse obedience, faltered out — “ Gra- 
cious Lady — if my memory err not — it was at a masque 
in Holyrood — at the marriage of Sebastian.” 

The unhappy Queen who had hitherto listened with 
a melancholy smile, provoked by the reluctance with 
which the Lady Fleming brought out her story, at this 
ill-fated word, interrupted her with a shriek so wild and 
loud that the vaulted apartment rang, and both Roland 
and Catherine sprung to their feet in the utmost terror 
and alarm. Meantime, Mary seemed, by the train of 
horrible ideas thus suddenly excited, surprised not only 
beyond self-command, but for the moment beyond the 
verge of reason. 

“ Traitress !” she said to the Lady Fleming, ‘‘ thou 
wouldst slay thy sovereign — Call my French Guards-r-d 
moi ! d moi ! mes Francais ! — I am beset with traitors 
in mine own palace — they have murdered my husband 
— Rescue ! rescue ! for the Queen of Scotland !” She 
started up from her chair — her features, late so exqui- 
sitely lovely in their paleness, now inflamed with the fury 
of frenzy, and resembling those of a Bellona. “ We 
will take the field ourself,” she said ; ‘‘ warn the city — 
warn Lothian and Fife — saddle our Spanish barb, and 
13* VOL. II. 


150 


THE ABBOT. 


bid French Paris see our petronel be charged! — Better 
to die at the head of our brave Scotsmen, like our grand- 
father at Flodden, than of a broken heart like our ill- 
starred father!” 

“ Be patient — be composed, dearest Sovereign!” said 
Catherine ; and then addressing Lady Fleming angrily, 
she added, “ How could you say aught that reminded 
her of her husband ?” 

The word reached the ear of the unhappy Princess, 
who caught it up, speaking with great rapidity. “ Hus- 
band ! — what husband F — Not his most Christian Majesty 
— he is ill at ease — he cannot mount on horseback. — 
Not him of the Lennox — but it was the Duke of Ork- 
ney thou wouldst say.” 

“ For God’s love, madam, be patient 1” said the Lady 
Fleming. 

But the Queen’s excited imagination could by no en- 
treaty be diverted from its course. “ Bid him come 
hither to our aid,” she said, “ and bring with him his 
lambs, as he calls them — Bowton, Hay of Talla, Black 
Ormiston, and his kinsman Hob — Fie ! how swart they 
are, and how they smell of sulphur. What ! closeted 
with Morton Nay, if the Douglas and the Hepburn 
hatch the complot together, the bii^, when it breaks the 
shell, will scare Scotland. Will it ndtj my Fleming 

She grows wilder and wilder,” said Fleming ; “ w^e 
have too many hearers for these strange words.” 

‘‘Roland,” said Catherine, “in the name of God, 
begone I You cannot aid us here — Leave us to deal with 
her alone — Away — away !” 

She thrust him to the door of the anteroom ; yet even 
when he had entered that apartment, and shut the door, 
he could still hear the Queen talk in a loud and deter- 
mined tone, as if giving forth orders, until at length the 
voice died away in a feeble and continued lamentation. 

At this crisis Catherine entered the anteroom. “ Be 
not too anxious,” she said, “ the crisis is now over ; but 
keep the door fast — Let no one enter until she is more 
composed.” 


THE ABBOT. 


151 


“ In the name of God, what does this mean ?” said 
the page ; “ or wliat was there in the Lady Fleming’s 
words to excite so wild a transport?” 

“ O, the Lady Fleming, the Lady Fleming,” said 
Catherine, repeating the words impatiently ; “ the Lady 
Fleming is a fool — she loves her mistress, yet knows so 
little how to express her love, that were the Queen to ask 
her for very poison, she would deem it a point of duty 
not to resist her commands. I could have torn her 
starched head-tire from her formal head — The Queen 
should have as soon had the heart out of my body, as 
the word Sebastian out of my lips — That that piece of 
weaved tapestry should be a woman, and yet not have 
wit enough to tell a lie !” 

“ And what was this story of Sebastian said the 
page. “ By heaven, Catherine, you are all riddles 
alike!” 

“ You are as great a fool as Fleming,” returned the 
impatient maiden ; “ know ye not, that on the night of 
Henry Darnley’s murder, and at the blowing up of the 
Kirk of Field, the Queen’s absence was owing to her 
attending on a masque at Holyrood, given by her to grace 
the marriage of this same Sebastian, who, himself a fa- 
voured servant, married one of her female attendants 
who was near to her person 

“ By Saint Giles,” said the page, “ I wonder not at 
her passion, but only marvel by what forgetfulness it was 
that she could urge the Lady Fleming with such a ques- 
tion.” 

“ I cannot account for it,” said Catherine ; “ but it 
seems as if great and violent grief or horror sometimes 
obscure the memory, and spread a cloud like that of an 
exploding cannon, over the circumstances with which 
they are accompanied. But 1 may not stay here, where 
I came not to moralize with your wisdom, but simply to 
cool my resentment against that unwise Lady Fleming, 
which I think hath now somewhat abated, so that 1 shall 
endure her presence without any desire to damage either 
her curch or vasquine. Meanwhile, keep fast that door 


152 


THE ABliOT. 


— I would not for my life that any of these heretics saw 
her in the unhappy state, which, brought on her as it has 
been by tiie success of their own diabolical plottings, 
they would not slick to call, in their snuffling cant, the 
judgment of Providence.” 

She left the apartment just as the latch of the out- 
w'ard door was raised from without. But the bolt w liich 
Roland had drawn on the inside, resisted the efforts of 
the person desirous to enter. “ Who is there said 
Graeme aloud. 

“ It is I,” replied the harsh and yet low voice of the 
Steward Dryfesdale. 

“ You cannot enter now,” returned the youth. 

“ And wherefore demanded Dryfesdale, seeing 
I come but to do my duty, and inquire what mean the 
shrieks from the apartment of the Moabitish woman. 
Wherefore, I say, since such is mine errand, can 1 not 
enter 

“ Simply,” replied the youth, “ because the bolt is 
drawn, and 1 have no fancy to undo it. I have the riglit 
side of the door to-day, as you had last night.” 

“ Thou art ill-advised, thou malapert boy,” replied 
the steward, “ to speak to me in such fashion ; but I 
shall inform my lady of thine insolence.” 

“ The insolence,” said the page, “ is meant for thee 
only, in fair guerdon of tliy discourtesy to me. For thy 
lady’s information, 1 have answer more courteous — you 
may say that the Queen is ill at ease, and desires to be 
disturbed neither by visits nor messages.” 

“I conjure you, in the name of God,” said the old 
man, with more solemnity in histone than he had hither- 
to used, “to let me 'know if her malady really gains 
power on her !” 

“ She will have no aid at your hand, or at your lady’s 
— wherefore, begone, and trouble us no more — we 
neither want, nor will accept of, aid at your hands.” 

With this positive reply, the steward, grumbling, ana 
dissatisfied, returned down stairs. 


THE ABBOT. 


153 


CHAPTER XII. 

It is the curse of king’s to be attended 
By slaves, who take their humours for a warrant 
To break into the bloody house of life. 

And on the winking of authority 
To understand a law. 

King John. 


The Lady of Lochleven sat alone in her chamber, 
endeavouring, with sincere, but imperfect zeal, to fix her 
eyes and her attention on the black-letter Bible which 
lay before her, bound in velvet and embroidery, and 
adorned with massive silver clasps and knosps. But she 
found her utmost efforts unable to withdraw her mind 
from the resentful recollection of what had last night 
passed betwixt her and the Queen, in which the latter 
had with such bitter taunt reminded her of her early and 
long-repented transgression. 

Why, she said, should I resent so deeply, that another 
reproaches me with that which I have never ceased to 
make matter of blushing to myself.^ and yet, why should 
this woman, who reaps — at least, has reaped— the fruits 
of my folly, and has jostled my son aside from the 
throne, why should she, in the face of all my domestics, 
and of her own, dare to upbraid me with my shame 
Is she not in my power ? Does she not fear me ? Ha ! 
wily tempter, I will wrestle with thee strongly, and with 
better suggestions than my own evil heart can supply ! 

She again took up the sacred volume, and was endea- 
vouring to fix her attention on its contents, when she was 
disturbed by a tap at the door of the room. It opened 
at her command, and the Steward Dryfesdale entered, 
and stood before her with a gloomy and perturbed ex- 
pression on his brow 


154 


THE ABBOT- 


What has chanced, Dryfesdale, “ that thou lookest 
thus?” said his Mistress — “ Have there been evil tidings 
of my son, or of my grandchildren ?” 

“ No, lady,” replied Dryfesdaje, “ but you were 
deeply insulted last night, and I fear me thou art as 
deeply avenged this morning — Where is the chaplain f” 

“ What mean you by hints so dark, and a question so 
sudden f The chaplain, as you well know, is absent at 
Perth upon an assembly of the brethren.” 

“ I care not,” answered the steward ; “ he is but a 
priest of Baal.” 

“ Dryfesdale,” said the lady, sternly, “ what meanest 
thou ? 1 have ever heard, that in the Low Countries thou 
didst herd with the Anabaptist preachers, those boars 
which tear up the vintage — But the ministry which suits 
me and my house must content my retainers.” 

“ I would I had good ghostly counsel though,” replied 
the steward, not attending to his Mistress’s rebuke, .and 
seeming to speak to himself, “ this woman of Moab” — 

“ Speak of her with reverence,” said the lady; “she 
is a king’s daughter.” 

“Be it so,” replied Dryfesdale ; “she goes where 
there is little difference betwixt her and a beggar’s child 
— Mary of Scotland is dying.” 

“ Dying, and in my castle !” said the lady, starting up 
in alarm ; “ of what disease, or by what accident 

“ Bear patience, lady. The ministry was mine.” 

“ Thine, villain and traitor! — how didst thou dare” — 

“ I heard you insulted, lady — I heard you demand 
vengeance — 1 promised you should have it, and 1 now 
bring tidings of it.” 

“ Dryfesdale, 1 trust thou ravest ?” said the lady. 

“ I rave not,” replied the steward. “ That which was 
written of me a million of years ere I saw the light, must 
be executed by me. She hath that in her veins that, I 
fear me, will soon stop the springs of life.” 

“ Cruel villain,” exclaimed the lady, “ thou hast not 
poisoned her ? 


THE ABBOT. 


155 


‘ And if t had,” said Dryfesdale, “ what does it so 
greatly merit ? Men bane vermin — why not rid them of 
their enemies so ? in Italy they will do it for a cruizedor.” 
“ Cowardly ruffian, begone from my sight !” 

“ Think better of my zeal, lady,” said the steward, 
and judge not without looking around you. Linde- 
say, Ruthven, and your kinsman Morton poniarded 
Rizzio, and yet you now see no blood on their embroid- 
ery — the Lord Semple stabbed tbe Lord of Sanquhar — 
does his bonnet sit a jot more awry on his brow? What 
noble lives in Scotland wbo has not had a share, for pol- 
icy or revenge, in some such dealing f — and who imputes 
it to them ? Be not cheated with names — a dagger or a 
draught work to the same end, and are little unlike — a 
glass phial imprisons the one, and a leathern sheath the 
other — one deals with the brain, the other sluices the 
blood — Yet, I say not I gave aught to this lady.” 

“ What dost thou mean by thus dallying with me ?” 
said the lady ; “ as thou wouldst save thy neck from the 
rope it merits, tell me the whole truth of this story — 
thou hast long been known a dangerous man.” 

“ Ay, in my master’s service, I can be cold and sharp 
as my sword. Be it known to you, that when last on 
shore, I consulted with a woman of skill and power, 
called Nicneven, of whom the country has rung for 
some brief time past. Fools asked her for charms to 
make them beloved, misers for means to increase their 
store ; some demanded to know the future — an idle wish, 
since it cannot be altered ; others would have an expla- 
nation of the past — idler still, since it cannot be recalled 
— I heard their queries with scorn, and demanded the 
means of avenging myself of a deadly enemy, for 1 grow 
old, and may trust no longer to Bilboa blade. She gave 
me a packet — Mix that, said she, with any liquid, and 
thy vengeance is conjplete.” 

“ Villain ! and you mixed it with the food of this im- 
prisoned lady, to the dishonour of thy master’s house ?” 

“ To redeem the insulted honour of my master’s 
house, I mixed the contents of the packet with the jar 


156 


THE ABBOT. 


of succory-water : they seldom fail to drain it, and the 
woman loves it over all.” 

“ It was a w’ork of hell,” said the Lady Lochleven, 
“ both the asking and the granting. — Away, wretched 
man, let us see if aid be yet too late !” 

“ They will not admit us, madam, save we enter by 
force — 1 have been twice at the door, but can obtain no 
entrance.” 

“ VVe will beat it level with the ground, if needful — 
And, hold — summon Randal hither instantly. — Randal, 
here is a foul and evil chance befallen — send off a boat 
instantly to Kinross, the Chamberlain Luke Lundin is 
said to have skill — Fetch off, too, that foul witch Nicne- 
ven ; she shall first counteract her own spell, and then 
be burned to ashes in the island of Saiiit Serf. Away, 
away — Tell them to hoist sail and ply oar, as ever they 
wmuld have good of the Douglas’s hand!” ' 

“ Mother Nicneven will not be lightly found or fetch- 
ed hither on these conditions,” answ^ered Dryfesdale. 

“ Then grant her full assurance of safety — Look to it, 
for thine own life must answer for this lady’s recovery.” 

“ I might have guessed that,” said Dryfesdale, sul- 
lenly ; “ but it is my comfort I have avenged mine own 
cause, as well as yours. She hath scoffed and scripped 
at me, and encouraged her saucy minion of a page to 
ridictde my stiff gait and slow speech. 1 felt it borne in 
upon me that I was to be avenged on them.” 

“ Go to the western turret,” said the lady, “ and re- 
main there in ward until we see how this gear will ter- 
minate. 1 know thy resolved disposition — thou wilt not 
attempt escape.” 

“ Not were the walls of the turret of egg-shells, and 
the lake sheeted with ice,” said Dryfesdale. “ 1 am well 
taught, and strong in belief that man does nought of 
himsell ; he is but the foam on the billow, which rises, 
bubbles, and bursts, not by its own effort, but by the 
mightier impulse of fate, which urges him. Yet, lady, 
if I may advise, amid this zeal for the life of the Jezabel 


THE ABBOT. 


J57 


of Scotland, forget not wliat is due to thine own honour, 
and keep the matter secret as you may.” 

So saying, the gloomy fatalist turned from her, and 
stalked off with sullen composure to the place of con- 
finement allotted to him. 

His lady caught at his last hint, and only expressed 
her fear that the prisoner had partaken of some unwhole- 
some food, and was dangerously ill. The castle was 
soon alarmed and in confusion. Randal was despatched 
to the shore to fetch off Lundin, with such remedies as 
could counteract poison ; and with farther instructions to 
bring Mother Nicneven, if she could be found, with full 
power to pledge the Lady of Lochleven’s word for her 
safety. 

Meanwhile the Lady of Lochleven herself held par- 
ley at the door of the Queen’s apartment, and in vain 
urged the page to undo it. 

“ Foolish boy !” she said, “thine own life and thy 
lady’s are at stake — Open, 1 say, or we will cause the 
door to be broken down.” 

“ I may not open the door without my Royal IMis- 
tress’s orders,” answered Roland ; “ she has been very 
ill, and now she slumbers — if you wake her by using 
violence, let the consequence be on you and your fol- 
lowers.” 

“ Was ever woman in a strait so fearlul !” exclaimed 
the Lady of Lochleven — “ At least, thou rash boy, be- 
ware that no one tastes the food, but especially the jar 
of succory-water.” 

She then hastened to the turret, where Dryfesdale had 
composedly resigned himself to imprisonment. She 
found l)lm reading, and demanded of him, “ Was thy 
fell potion of speedy operation 

“ Slow !” answered the steward. “ The hag asked 
me which I chose — 1 told her 1 loved a slow and sure 
revenge. Revenge, said I, is the highest-flavoured 
draught which man tastes upon earth, and he. should sij) 
it by little and little — not drain it up greediTy at once.” 

14 VOL. II. 


158 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Against whom, unhappy man, couldst thou nourish 
so fell a revenge f ” 

“ I had many objects, but the chief was that insolent 
page.” 

“ The boy ! — thou inhuman man,” exclaimed the 
lady ; “ what could he do to deserve tliy malice 

“ He rose in your favour, and you graced him with 
your commissions — that was one thing. He rose in that 
of George Douglas also — that was another. He was 
the favourite of the Calvinistic Henderson, who hated 
me because my spirit disowns a separated priesthood. 
The jVloabitish Queen held him dear — winds from each 
op[)osing point blew in his favour — the old servitor of 
your house was held lightly among ye — above all, from 
the first time I saw his face, 1 longed to destroy him.” 

“ What fiend have I nurtured in my house !” replied 
the lady. “ May God forgive me the sin of having 
given thee food and raiment !” 

“ You might not choose, lady,” answered the stew- 
ard. “ Long ere this castle was builded — aye, long ere 
the islet which sustains it reared its head above the blue 
water, I was destined to be your faithful slave, and you 
to be my ungrateful Mistress. Remember you not when 
I plunged amid the victorious French, in the time of this 
lady’s mother, and brought off your husband, when those 
who had hung at the same breasts with him dared not 
'attempt the rescue — Remember how 1 plunged into the 
lake when your grandson’s skiff was overtaken by the 
tempest, boarded, and steered her safe to the land. 
Lady — the servant of a Scottish Baron is he who re- 
gards not his own life, or that of any other, save his 
niaster. And, for the death of the woman, I had tried 
the potion on her sooner, had not Master George been 
her taster. Her death — would it not be the happiest 
news that Scotland ever heard ? Is she not of the bloody 
Guisian stock, wlmse sword was so often red with the 
blood of God’s saints ? Is she not the daughter of the 
wretched tyrant James, whom Heaven cast down from 


THE ABBOT. 


159 


his kingdom, and his pride, even as the King of Babylon 
was smitten ?” 

“ Peace, villain !” said the lady — a thousand varied 
recollections thronging on her mind at the mention of her 
royal lover’s name ; “ Peace, and disturb not the ashes of 
the dead — of the royal, of the unhappy dead. Read 
thy Bible ; and may God grant thee to avail thyself better 
of its contents than thou hast yet done!” She departed 
hastily, and as she reached the next apartment, the tears 
rose to her eyes so hastily, that slie was compelled to 
stop and use her kerchief to dry them. “ I expected 
not this,” she said, “no more than to have drawn water 
from the hard flint, or sap from a withered tre^ 1 saw 
with a dry eye the apostacy and shame of George Doug- 
las, the hope of my son’s house — the child of my love ; 
and yet I now weep for him who has so long lain in his 
grave — for him to whom I owe it, that his daughter can 
make a scoffing and a jest of my name ! But she is his 
daughter — my heart, hardened against her for so many 
causes, relents when a glance of her eye places her 
father unexpectedly before me — and as often her like- 
ness to that true daughter of the house of Guise, her 
detested mother, has again confirmed my resolution. 
But she must not — must not die in my house, and by so 
foul a practice. Thank God, the operation of the po 
tion is slow, and may be counteracted. I will to her 
apartment once more. But O ! that hardened villain, 
whose fidelity we held in such esteem, and had such high 
proof of ! What miracle can unite so much wicked- 
ness, and so much truth, in one bosom !” 

The Lady of Lochleven was not aware how far minds 
of a certain gloomy and determined cast by nature, may 
be warped by a keen sense of petty injuries and insults, 
combining with the love of gain, and sense of self-inter- 
est, and amalgamated with the crude, wild, and indigest- 
ed fanatical opinions which this man had gathered among 
the crazy sectaries of Germany ; or how far the doc- 
trines of fatalisitt which he had embraced so decidedly 


160 


THE ABBOT. 


sear the human conscience, by representing our actions 
as the result of inevitable necessity. 

During her visit to the prisoner, Roland had commu- 
nicated to Catherine the tenor of the conversation he 
had had with her at the door of the apartment. The 
quick intelligence of that lively maiden instantly compre- 
hended the outline of wliat was believed to have happen- 
ed, but her prejudices hurried her beyond the truth. 

“ They meant to have poisoned us,” she exclaimed 
in horror, “ and there stands the fatal liquor which should 
have done the deed ! — ay, as soon as Douglas ceased to 
be our taster, our food w'as likely to be fatally seasoned. 
Thou, I¥oland, who shouldst have made the ©ssay, wert 
readily doomed to die with us. O, dearest Lady Flem- 
ing, pardon, pardon, for the injuries I said to you in my 
anger — your words were prompted by heaven to save 
our lives, and especially that of the injured Queen. But 
what have we now to do that old crocodile of the lake 
will be presently back to shed her hypocritical tears over 
our dying agonies. — Lady Fleming, what shall we do 

“ Our Lady help us in our need !” she replied ; 
“ how should I tell?— unless we were to make our plaint 
to the Regent.” 

“ Make our plaint to the devil,” said Catherine, im- 
patiently, “ and accuse his dam at the foot of his burn- 
ing throne ! — the Queen still sleeps — we must gain time. 
The poisoning hag must not know' her scheme has mis- 
carried ; the old envenomed spider has but too many 
w’ays of mending her broken web. — The jar of succory- 
water,” said she — “ Roland, if thou be’st a man, help 
me — empty the jar on the chimney or from the window 
— make such waste among the viands as if we had made 
our usual meal, and leave the fragments on cup and por- 
ringer, but taste nothing as thou lovest thy life. I will 
sit by the Queen, and tell her at her waking, in what a 
fearful pass we stand. Her sharp wit and ready spirit 
will teach us what is best to be done. Meanwhile, till 
farther notice, observe, Roland, that the Queen is in a 
state of torpor — that Lady Fleming is indisposed — that 


THE AEI3JT. 


161 


character (speaking in a lower tone) will suit her best, and 
save her wits some labour in vain. 1 am not so much 
indisposed, thou undersiandest.” 

“ And I said the page 

“ You replied Catherine, “ you are quite well — 
who thinks it worth while to poison puppy-dogs or 
pages?” 

“ Does this levity become the time ?” asked the page 

“ It does, it does,” answered Catherine Seyton ; “ if 
die Queen approves, I see plainly how this disconcerted 
attempt may do us good service.” 

She went to work while she spoke, eagerly assisted by 
Roland. The breakfast table soon displayed %he ap- 
pearance as if the meal had been eaten as usual ; and 
the ladies retired as softly as possible into the Queen’s 
sleeping apartment. 

At a new summons of the Lady Lochleven, the page 
undid the door and admitted her into the anteroom, 
asking her pardon for having withstood her, alleging in 
excuse, that the Queen had fallen into a heavy slumber 
since she had broken her fast. 

“ She has eaten and drunken then ?” said the Lady 
of Lochleven. 

“ Surely,” replied the page, “ according to her 
Grace’s ordinary custom, unless upon the fasts of the 
church.” 

“ The jar,” she said, hastily examining it, “ it is 
empty — drank the Lady Mary the whole of this water?” 

“ A large part, madam ; and I heard the Lady Cath- 
erine Seyton jestingly upbraid the Lady Mary Fleming 
with having taken more than a just share of what re- 
mained, so that but little fell to ber own lot.” 

“ And are they well in health ?” said the Lady of 
Lochleven. 

“ Lady Fleming,” said the page, “ complains of 
lethargy, and looks duller than usual ; and the Lady 
Catherine of Seyton feels her head somewhat more 
giddy than is her wont.” 

14* VOL. II. 


THE ABBOT. 


1 62 

He raised his voice a little as he said these words, to • 
apprize the ladies of the part assigned to each of them, 
and not, perhaps, without the wish of conveying to the 
ears of Catherine the page-like jest which lurked in the 
allotment. 

“ I will enter the Queen’s cliamber,” said the Lady 
Lochleven; “ my business is express.” 

As she advanced to the door, the voice of Catherine 
Seyton was heard from within — “ No one can enter here 
— the Queen sleeps.” 

“ I will not be controlled, young lady,” replied the 
Lady of Lochleven ; “ there is, 1 wot, no inner bar, 
and I will enter in your despite.” 

“ There is, indeed no inner bar,” answered Catherine 
firmly, “ but there are the staples wdiere that bar should 
be ; and into those staples have 1 thrust mine arm, like an 
ancestress of your own, when, better employed than the 
Douglasses of our days, she thus defended the bedcham- 
ber “of her sovereign against murderers. Try your 
force, then, and see whether a Seyton cannot rival in 
courage a maiden of the house of Douglas.” 

“ I dare not attempt the pass at such risk,” said the 
Lady of Lochleven : “ strange, that this Princess, w ith 
all that justly attaches to her as blamew’orthy, should 
preserve such empire over the minds of her attendants! 

— Damsel, I give thee my honour that I come for the 
Queen’s safety and advantage. Awaken her, if thou 
lovest her, and pray her leave that 1 may enter — I will 
retire from the door the whilst.” 

“ Thou wilt not awaken the Queen said the Lady 
Fleming, 

“ What choice have w^e said the ready-witted 
maiden, “ unless you deem it better to wait till the Lady 
Lochleven herself plays lady of the bedchamber. Her 
fit of patience will not last long, and the Queen must be 
prepared to meet her.” 

“ But thou wilt bring back her Grace’s fit by thus dis- 
turbing her.” 


THE 4BS0T. 


163 


“ Heaven forbid !” replied Catherine ; “ but if so, it 
must pass for an effect of the poison. 1 hope better 
tilings, and that the Queen will be able when she wakes 
to form her own judgment in this terrible crisis. Mean- 
while, do thou, deal Lady Fleming, practise to look as 
dull and heavy as the alertness of thy spirit will permit.” 

Catherine kneeled by the side of the Queen’s bed, 
and, kissing her hand repeatedly, succeeded at last in 
awakening without alarming her. She seemed surprised 
to find that she was ready dressed, but sat up in her bed, 
and appeared so perfectly composed, that Catherine 
Seyton, without farther preamble, judged it safe to in- 
form her of the predicament in which they were placed. 
Mary turned pale, and crossed herself again and again, 
when she heard the imminent danger in which she had 
stood. But, like the Ulysses of Homer, 

Hardly waking yet, 

Sprung in her mind the momentary wit, 

and she at once understood her situation, with the dan- 
gers and advantages that attended it. 

“ We cannot do better,” she said, after her hasty con- 
ference with Catherine, pressing her at the same time to 
her bosom, and kissing her forehead ; “ we cannot do 
better than to follow the scheme so happily devised by 
thy quick wit and bold affection. Undo the door to tlie 
Lady Lochleven — She shall meet her match in art, 
though not in perhdy. Fleming, draw close the curtain, 
and get thee behind it — thou art a better tire-woman 
than an actress; do but breathe heavily, and, if thou 
wilt, groan slightly, and it will top thy part. Hark ! they 
come. Now, Catherine of Medicis, may thy spirit in- 
spire me, for a cold northern brain is too blunt for this 
scene !” 

Ushered by Catherine Seyton, and stepping as light 
as she could, the Lady Lochleven was shown into the 
twilight apartment, and conducted to the side of the 
couch, where Mary, pallid and exhausted from a sleep- 
ess night, and the subsequent agitation of the morning. 


164 


THE ABBOT. 


lay extended so listlessly as might well confirm the worst 
fears of her hostess. 

“ Now, God forgive us our sins !” said the Lady of 
Lochleven, forgetting her pride, and throwing herself on 
her knees by the side of the bed ; “ it is too true — she 
is murdered !” 

“ Who is in the chamber.^” said Mary, as if awaking 
from a heavy sleep. “ Seyton, Fleming, where are you 't 
I heard a strange voice. Who waits ^ — Call Courselles.” 

“ Alas ! her memory is at Holyrood, though her body 
is at Lcchleven. — Forgive, madam,” co[)tinued the 
lady, “ if I call your attention to me — I am Margaret 
Erskine, of the house of Mar, by marriage Lady Doug- 
las of Lochleven.” 

“ O, our gentle hostess,” answered the Queen, 
“ who hath such care of our lodgings and of our diet — 
We cumber you too much, and too long, good Lady of 
Lochleven ; but we now trust your task of hospitality is 
wellnigh ended.” 

“ Her words go like a knife through my heart,” said 
the Lady of Locldeven — “ With a breaking heart, I pray 
vour Grace to tell me what is your ailment, that aid may 
be had if there be yet time V' 

“ Nay, my ailment,” replied the Queen, “ is nothing 
worth telling, or worth a leech’s notice — my limbs feel 
heavy — my heart feels cold — a prisoner’s limbs and heart 
are rarely otherwise — fresh air, methinks, and freedom, 
would soon revive me ; but, as the Estates have ordered 
it, death alone can break my prison-doors.” 

“ Were it possible, madam,” said the Lady, “ that 
your liberty could restore your perfect health, I would 
myself encounter the resentment of the Regent — of my 
son. Sir William — of my whole friends, rather than you 
should meet your fate in this castle!” 

“ Alas ! madam,” said the Lady Fleming, who con- 
ceived the time propitious to show that her own address 
had been held too lightly of ; “ it is but trying what good 
freedom may work upon us ; for myself, I think a free 


THE ABBOT. 


165 


walk on the greensward woLild do me much cood at 
heart.” 

The Lady of Lochleven rose from the bed-side, and 
darted a penetrating look at the elder valetudinary. 
“ Are you so evil disposed, Lady Fleming?” 

“ Evil disposed indeed, madam,” replied the court 
dame, “ and more especially since breakfast.” 

“ Help ! help !” exclaimed Catherine, anxious to 
break off a conversation which boded her schemes no 
good ; “ Help ! I say, help ! the Queen is about to pass 
away. Aid her. Lady Lochleven, if you be a woman.”. 

The lady hastened to support the Queen’s head, who, 
turning her eyes towards her with an air of great lan- 
guor, exclaimed, “ Thanks, my dearest Lady of Loch- 
leven — notwithstanding some passages of late, I have 
never misconstrued or misdoubted your affection to our 
house. It was proved, as I have heard, before 1 was 
born.” 

The Lady Lochleven sprung from the floor on which 
she had again* knelt, and having paced the apartment in 
great disorder, flung open the lattice, as if to get air. 

“ Now, Our Lady forgive me !” said Catherine to 
herself. “ How deep must the love of sarcasm be im- 
planted in the breasts of us women, since the Queen, 
with all her sense, will risk ruin rather than rein in her 
wit!” She then adventured, stooping over the Queen’s 
person, to press her arm with her hand, saying at the 
same time, “ For God’s sake, madam, restrain yourself!” 

“ Thou art too forward, maiden,” said the Queen ; 
but immediately added, in a low whisper, “ Forgive me, 
Catherine ; but when I felt the hag’s murderous hands 
busy about my head and neck, I felt such disgust and 
hatred, that I must have said something, or died. But 
I will be schooled to better haviour — only see that thou 
let her not touch me.” 

“ Now, God be praised !” said the Lady Lochleven, 
withdrawing her head from the window, “ the boat comes 
as fast as sail and oar can send wood through water — It 
brings the leech and a female — certainly, from the appear- 


166 


THE ABBOT. 


ance, the very person I was in quest of. Were she but 
well out of this castle, with our honour safe, I would 
that she were on the top of the wildest mountain in Nor- 
way; or 1 would 1 had been there myself, ere 1 had un- 
dertaken this trust!” 

While she thus expressed herself, standing apart at 
one window, Roland Graeme, from the other, watched 
the boat bursting through the waters of the lake, which 
glided from its side in ripple and in foam. He, too, be- 
came sensible, that at the stern was seated the medical 
Chamberlain, clad in his black velvet cloak ; and that 
his own relative, Magdalen Graeme, in her assumed 
character of Mother Nicneven, stood in the bow, her 
bands clasped together, and pointed towards the castle, 
and her attitude, even at that distance, expressing enthu- 
siastic eagerness to arrive at the landing-place. They 
arrived there accordingly ; and while the supposed witch 
was detained in a room beneath, the physician was ush- 
ered to the Queen’s apartment, which he entered with 
all due professional solemnity. Catherine had, in the 
meanwhile, fallen back from the Queen’s bed, and taken 
an opportunity to whisper to Roland, “ Methinks, from 
the information of the threadbare velvet cloak and the 
solemn beard, there would be little trouble in haltering 
yonder ass. But thy grandmother, Roland — thy grand- 
mother’s zeal will ruin us, if she get not a hint to dis- 
semble.” 

Roland, without reply, glided towards the door of the 
apartment, crossed the parlour, and safely entered the 
antechamber ; but when he attempted to pass farther, 
the word ‘‘ Back ! Back !” echoed from one to the 
other, by two men armed with carabines, convinced him 
that the Lady of Lochleven’s suspicions had not, even 
in the midst of her alarms, been so far lulled to sleep as 
to omit the precaution of stationing sentinels on her pris- 
oners. He was compelled, therefore, to return to the 
parlour, or audience-chamber, in which he found the 
lady of the castle in conference WMlh her learned leech 


THE ABBOT. 


1G7 


“ A truce with your cant phrase and your solemn fop- 
pery, Lundin,” in such terms she accosted the man of 
art, “ and let me know instantly, if thou canst tell wheth- 
er this lady hath swallowed aught that is less than whole- 
some.” 

“ Nay, but, good lady — honoured patroness — to whom 
1 am alike bondsman in my medical and official capaci- 
ty, deal reasonably with me. If this, mine illustrious 
. patient, will not answer a question, saving' with sighs and 
moans — if that other honourable lady will do nought but 
yawn in my face when I inquire after the diagnostics — 
and if that other young damsel, who I profess is a come- 
ly maiden” 

“ Talk not to me of comeliness or of damsels,” said 
the Lady of Lochleven, “ 1 say, are they evil disposed f 
— In one word, man, have they taken poison, ay or no 

“ Poisons, madam,” said the learned leech, “ are of 
various sorts. There is your aniinal poison, as the lepus 
marinuSf as mentioned by Dioscorides and Galen — there 
are mineral and semi-mineral poisons, as those com- 
pounded of sublimate regulus of antimony, vitriol, and 
the arsenical salts — there are your poisons from herbs 
and vegetables, as the aqua cymbalariae, opium, aconi- 
tum, cantharides, and the like — there are also” 

“ Now, out upon thee for a learned fool ! and I my- 
self am no better for expecting an oracle from such a 
log,” said the lady. 

“ Nay, but if your ladyship will have patience — if I 
knew what food they have partaken of, or could see but 
the remnants of what they have last eaten — for as to the 
external and internal symptoms, I can discover nought 
like ; for, as Galen saith in his second book de Anti- 
dotis'^ 

“ Away, fool !” said the lady ; “ send me that hag 
hither ; she shall avouch what it was that she hath given 
to the wretch Dryfesdale, or the pilniewinks and thumbi- 
kins shall wrench it out of her finger joints!” 

“ Art hath no enemy unless the ignorant,” said the 
mortified Doctor ; veiling, however, his remark under 


168 


THE ABBOT. 


the Latin version, and stepping apart into a corner to 
watch the result. 

In a minute or two, Magdalen Graeme entered the 
apartment, dressed as we have described her at tl)e revel, 
but with her muffler thrown back, and all affectation ot 
disguise. She was attended by two guards, of whose 
presence she did not seem even to be conscious, and who 
followed her witli an air of embarrassment and timidity 
which was probably owing to their belief in her super- 
natural power, coupled, with the effect produced by her 
bold and undaunted demeanour. She confronted the 
Lady of Lochleven, who seemed to endure with high 
disdain the confidence of her air and manner. 

“ Wretched woman !” said the lady, after essaying for 
a moment to bear her down, before she addressed her, 
by the stately severity of her look, “ what was that pow- 
der which thou didst give to a servant of this house, by 
name Jasper Dryfesdale, that he might work out with it 
some slow and secret vengeance ? — Confess its nature 
and properties, or, by the honour of Douglas, I give thee 
to fire and stake before the sun is lower !” 

“ Alas !” said Magdalen Gi cEtne in reply, “ and when 
became a Douglas or a Douglas’s man so unfurnished of 
his means of revenge, that he should seek them at the 
hands of a poor and solitary woman f The towers in 
which your captives pine away into unpitied graves, yet 
stand fast bn their foundations— the crimes wrought in them 
have not yet burst their vaults asunder — your men have 
still their crossbows, pistolets, and daggers — why need 
you seek to herbs or charms for the execution of your 
revenges 

“ Hear me, foul hag,” said the Lady of Lochleven, — 
“ but what avails speaking to thee f — Bring Dryfesdale 
nither, and let them be confronted together.” 

“ You may spare your retainers the labour,” replied 
Magdalen Graeme. “ I came not here to be confronted 
' with a base groom, nor to answer the interrogatories of 
James’s heretical leman — I came to speak with the Queen 
of Scotland — Give place there b’ 


THE ABBOT. 


169 


And while the Lady of Lochleven stood confounded at 
her boldness, and at the reproach she had cast upon her- 
self, Magdalen Graeme strode past her into the bedcham- 
ber of the Queen, and kneeling on the floor made a sal- 
utation as if, in the Oriental fashion, she meant to touch 
the earth with her forehead. 

“ Hail, Princess !’* she said, “ hail, daughter of many 
a king, but graced above them all, in that thou art called 
to suffer for the true faith ! — hail to thee, the pure gold 
of whose crown has been tried in the seven-times heated 
furnace of affliction — hear the comfort which God and 
Our Lady send thee by the mouth of thy unworthy ser- 
vant. — But first-” and stooping her head, she crossed her- 
self repeatedly, and, still upon her knees, appeared to be 
rapidly reciting some formula of devotion. 

“ Seize her and drag her to the Massymore ! — To the 
deepest dungeon with the sorceress, whose master, the 
devil, could alone have inspired her with boldness enough 
to insult the mother of Douglas in his own castle!” 

Thus spoke the incensed Lady of Lochleven, but the 
physician presumed to interpose. 

“ I pray of you, honoured madam, she be permitted 
to take her course without interruption. Peradventure, 
we shall learn something concerning the nostrum she hath 
ventured, contrary to law and the rules of art, to adhibit 
to these ladies, through the medium of the steward 
Dryfesdale.” 

“ For a fool,” replied the Lady of Lochleven, “ thou 
hast counselled wisely — I will bridle my resentment till 
their conference be over.” 

“ God forbid, honoured lady,” said Doctor Lundin, 
“ that you should suppress it longer — nothing may more 
endanger the frame of your honoured body ; and truly, 
if there be witchcraft in this matter, it is held by the vul- 
gar, and even by solid authors on Demonology, that three 
scruples of the ashes of the witch, when she hath been 
well and carefully burnt at a stake, is a grand catholi- 
con in such matter, even as they prescribe crinis canis 
^ 15 VOL. II. 


170 


THE ABBOT. 


rahidi, a hair of the dog that bit the patient, in cases of 
hydrophobia. 1 warrant neither treatment, being out of 
the regular practice of the schools ; but, in the present 
case, there can be little harm in trying the conclusion up- 
on this old necromancer and quack-salver — Jiat experi- 
mentum (as we say) in corpore viliy 

“ Peace, fool !” said the lady, “ she is about to speak.” 

At that moment Magdalen Gr^jiie arose from her knees, 
and turned her countenance on the Queen, at the same 
time advancing her foot, extending her arm, and assum- 
ing the mein and attitude of a Sibyl in frenzy. As her 
grey hair floated back from beneath her coif, and her eye 
gleamed fire from under its shaggy eyebrow, the effect 
of her expressive, though emaciated features, was height- 
ened by an enthusiasm approaching to insanity, and her 
appearance struck with awe all who were present. Her 
eyes for a time glanced wildly around, as if seeking lor 
something to aid her in collecting her powers of expres- 
sion, and her lips had a nervous and quivering motion, as 
those of one who would fain speak, yet rejects as inade- 
quate the words which present themselves. Mary her- 
self caught the infection, as if by a sort of magnetic in- 
fluence, and raising herself from her bed, without being 
able to withdraw her eyes from those of Magdalen, wait- 
ed as if for the oracle of a Pythoness. She waited not 
long ; for no sooner had the enthusiast collected herself, 
than her gaze became intensely steady, her features as- 
sumed a determined energy, and when she began to 
speak, the words flowed from her with a profuse fluency, 
which might have passed for inspiration, and which, per- 
haps, she herself mistook for such. 

“ Arise,” she said, “ Queen of France and of Eng- 
land ! Arise, lioness of Scotland, and be not dismayed, 
though the nets of the hunters have encircled thee ! 
Stoop not to feign with the false ones, whom thou shall 
soon meet in the field. The issue of battle is with the 
God of armies, but by battle thy cause shall be tried. 
Lay aside, then, the arts of lower mortals, and assume 
those which become a Queen ! True defender of the 


THE ABBOT. 


171 


only true faith, the armoury of heaven is ojjen to thee ! 
Faithful daughter of the Church, take the keys of St. 
Peter, to bind and to loose ! — Royal Princess of the laud, 
take the sword of Saint Paul, to smite and to shear I 
There is darkness in thy destiny ; — but not in these tow- 
ers, not under the rule of their haughty mistress, shall 
that destiny be closed — In other lands the lioness may 
crouch to the power of the tigress, but notin her own — 
not in Scotland shall the Queen of Scotland long remain 
captive — nor is the fate of the royal Stuart in the hands 
of the traitor Douglas. Let the Lady of Lochleven 
double her bolts and deepen her dungeons, they shall not 
retain thee — each element shall give thee its assistance 
ere thou shalt continue captive — the land shall lend its 
earthquakes, the water its waves, the air its tempests, tlie 
fire its devouring flames, to desolate this house, rather 
than it shall continue the place of thy captivity. — Hear 
this and tremble, all ye who fight against the light, for she 
says it, to whom it hath been asssured !” 

She was silent, and the astonished physician said, “ If 
there was ever an Energumene^ or possessed Demoniac, 
in our days, there is a devil speaking with that woman’s 
tongue!” 

“ Practice,” said the Lady of Lochleven, recovering 
her surprise ; “ here is all practice and imposture — To 
the dungeon with her !” 

“ Lady of Lochleven,” said Mary, arising from her 
bed, and coming forward with her wonted dignity, “ ere 
you make arrest on any one in our presence, hear me but 
one word. 1 have done you some wrong — 1 believed 
you privy to the murderous purpose of your vassal, and 1 
deceived you in suffering you to believe it had taken ef- 
fect. I did you wrong. Lady of Lochleven, for I per- 
ceive your purpose ^o aid me was sincere. We tasted 
not of the liquid, nor are we now sick, save that we lan- 
guish for our freedom.” 

“ It is avowed like Mary of Scotland,” said Magdalen 
Gramme ; “ and know, besides, that had the Queen drain- 
ed the draught to the dregs, it was harmless as the water 


172 


THE ABBOT. 


from a sainted spring. Trow ye, proud woman,” she 
added, addressing herself to the Lady of Lochleven. 
“ that I — I — would have been the wretch to put poison 
in the hands of a servant or vassal of the House ol Loch- 
leven, knowing whom that house contained f as soon 
would 1 have furnished drug to slay my own daughlerl” 

“Am 1 thus bearded in mine own castle?” said the lady ; 
“ to the dungeon with her ! — she shall abye what is due 
to the vender of poisons and practiser of witchcrafts.” 

“ Yet hear me for an instant. Lady of Lochleven,” 
said Mary ; “ and do you,” to Magdalen, be silent at 
my command. — Your steward, lady, has by confession 
attempted my life, and those of my household, and this 
woman hath done her best to save them, by furnishing 
him with what was harmless, in place of the fatal drugs 
which he expected. Methinks I propose to you but a 
fair exchange, when I say I forgive your vassal with all 
my heart, and leave vengeance to God, and to his con- 
science, so that you also forgive the boldness of this wo- 
man in your presence ; for we trust you do not hold it 
as a crime, that she substituted an innocent beverage for 
the mortal poison which was to have drenched our cup.” 

“ Heaven forefend, madam,” said the lady, “ that I 
should account that a crime which saved the House of 
Douglas from a foul breach of honour and hospitality ! 
We have written to our son touching our vassal’s delict, 
and he must abide his doom, which will most likely be 
death. Touching this woman, her trade is damnable by 
Scripture, and is mortally punished by the wise laws of 
our ancestry — she also must abide her dootn.” 

“ And have I then,” said the Queen, “ no claim on 
the H ouse of Lochleven for the wrong I have so nearlv 
suffered within their walls 1 ask but in requital, the life 
of a frail and aged woman, whose brain, as yourself may 
judge, seems somewhat affected by years and suffering.” 

“ If the Lady Mary,” replied the inflexible I^ady of 
Lochleven, “ hath been menaced with wrong in the 
House of Douglas, it may be regarded as some compen- 


THE ABBOT. 


173 


sation, that her complots have cost that house the exile 
of a valued son.” 

“ Plead no more for me, my gracious Sovereign,” said 
Magdalen Graeme, “ nor abase yourself to ask so much 
as a grey hair of my head at her hands. I knew the 
risk at which 1 served my Church and my Queen, and 
was ever prompt to pay my poor life as the ransom. Jt 
is a comfort to think, that in slaying me, or in restraining 
my freedom, or even in injuring that single grey hair, the 
house, whose honour she boasts so highly, will have filled 
up the measure of their shame by the breach of their 
solemn written assurance of safety.” — And taking from 
her bosom a paper, she handed it to the Queen. 

“ It is a solemn assurance of safety in life and limb,” 
said Queen Mary, “ with space to come and go, under 
the hand and seal of the Chamberlain of Kinross, grant- 
ed to Magdalen Graeme, commonly called Mother Nic- 
neven, in consideration of her consenting to put herself, 
for the space of twenty-four hours, if required, within 
the iron gate of the Castle of Lochleven.” 

“ Knave !” said the lady, turning to the Chamberlain, 
“ how dared you grant her such a protection 

“ It was by your ladyship’s orders, transmitted by 
Randal, as he can bear witness,” replied Doctor Lundin ; 
“ nay, I am only like the pharmacopolist, who compounds 
the drugs after the order of the mediciner.” 

“ I remember — I remember,” answered the lady ; 
“ but I meant the assurance only to be used in case, by 
residing in another jurisdiction, she could not have been 
apprehended under our warrant.” 

“ Nevertheless,” said the Queen, “ the Lady of Loch- 
leven is bound by the action of her deputy in granting 
the assurance.” 

“ Madam,” replied the lady, “ the House of Douglas 
have never broken their safe-conduct, and never will 
— too deeply did they suffer by such a breach of trust, 
exercised on themselves when your Grace’s ancestor, the 
second James, in defiance of the rights of hospitality, 
15* VOL. II. 


174 


THE ABBOT. 


and of liis own written assurance of safety, poniarded the 
brave Earl of Douglas will) his own iiand, and within two 
yards of the social board, at which he had just belore 
sat the King of Scotland’s honoured guest.” 

“ Methinks,” said the Queen, carelessly, “ in consid- 
eration of so very recent and enormous a tragedy, which 
1 think only chanced some six-score years agone, the 
Doustlassesshould have shown' themselves less tenacious 

O , 

of the company of their sovereigns, than you. Lady ol 
Lochleven, seem to be of mine.” 

“ Let Randal,” said the lady, “ take the hag back to 
Kinross, and set her at full liberty, discharging her from 
our bounds in future, on peril of her head. — And let your 
wisdojn,” to the Chamberlain, “ keep her company. 
And fear not for your character, though I send you in 
such company ; for, granting her to be a witch, it would 
be a waste of faggots to burn you for a wizard.” 

The crestfallen Chamberlain was preparing to depart ; 
but Magdalen Graeme, collecting herself, was about to 
reply, when the Queen interposed, saying, Good moth- 
er, u^e heartily thank you for your unfeigned zeal towards 
our person, and pray you, as our liege-woman, that you 
abstain from whatever may lead you into personal danger ; 
and, further, it is our will that you depart without a woj d 
of farther parley with any one in this castle. For thy 
present guerdon, take this small reliquary — it was given 
to us by our uncle the Cardinal, and hath had the bene- 
diction of the Holy Father himself;— and now depart in 
peace and in silence. — For you, learned sir,” continued 
the Queen, advancing to the Doctor, who made his rev- 
erence in a manner doubly embarrassed by the awe of 
the Queen’s presence, which made him fear to do too 
little, and by the apprehension of his lady’s displeasure, 
in case he should chance to do too much, — “ for vou, 
learned sir, as it was not your fault, though surely our 
own good fortune, that we did not need your skill at this 
time, it would not become us, however circumstanced, to 
suffer our leech to leave us without such guerdon as we 
can offer.” 


THE ABUOT. 


175 


With these words, and with tlie grace which never for- 
sook her, though, in the present case, there might lurk 
under it a little gentle ridicule, she ojfered a small em- 
bioidered purse to the Chamberlain, who, with extended 
hand and arched back, his learned face stooping until a 
physiognomist might have practised ihe'metoposcopical 
science upon it, as seen from behind betwixt his gamba- 
does, was about to accept of the professional recompense, 
offered by so fair as well as illustrious an hand. But the 
lady interposed, and, regarding the Chamberlain, said 
aloud, “ No servant of our house, without instantly re- 
linquishing that character, and incurring withal our high- 
est displeasure, shall dare receive any gratuity at the 
hand of the Lady Mary.” 

Sadly and slowly the Chamberlain raised his depres- 
sed stature into the perpendicular attitude, and left the 
apartment dejectedly, followed by Magdalen Grteme, 
after, with mute but expressive gesture, she had kissed 
the reliquary with which the Queen had presented her, 
and raising her clasped hands and unlifted eyes towards 
Heaven, had seemed to entreat a benediction upon the 
royal dame. As she left the castle and went towards the 
quay where the boat lay, Roland Graeme, anxious to com- 
municate with her if possible, threw himself in her way, 
and might have succeeded in exchanging a few words 
with her, as she was guarded only by the dejected Cham- 
berlain, and his halberdiers, but she seemed to have 
taken, in its most strict and literal acceptation, the com- 
mand to be silent, which she had received from the Queen; 
for, to the repeated signs of her grandson, she only re- 
plied by laying her finger on her lip. Dr. Lundin was 
not so reserved. Regret for the handsome gratuity, and 
for the compulsory task of self-denial imposed on him, 
had grieved the spirit of that worthy officer and learned 
mediciner — “ Even thus, my friend,” said he, squeezing 
the page’s hand as he bade him farewell, “ is merit re- 
warded. I came to cure this unhappy lady — and I pro- 
fess she well deserves the trouble, for say what they will 
il her, she hath a most winning manner, a sweet voice, 


176 


THE ABBOT. 


a gracious smile, and a most majestic wave of her hand. 
If she was not poisoned, say, my dear Master Roland, 
was that fault of mine, 1 being ready to cure her if she 
had ? — and now 1 am denied the permission to accept my 
well-earned honorarium — O Galen ! O Hippocrates ! is 
the graduate’s cap and doctor’s scarlet brought to this 
pass ! Frustra fatigamvs remediis agros^^ 

He wiped his eyes, stepped on the gunwale, and the 
boat pushed off from the shore, and w'ent merrily across 
the lake, which was dimpled by the summer wind.® 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Death distant ? — No, alas ! he’s ever with us. 

And shakes the dart at us in all our acting’s ; 

He lurks within our cup, while we’re in health ; 

Sits by our sick-bed, mocks our medicines ; 

We cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or travel, 

But Death is by to seize us when he lists. 

The Spanish Father. 


From the agitating scene in the Queen’s presence- 
chamber, the Lady of Lochleven retreated to her own 
apartment, and ordered the steward to be called before 
her. 

“ Have they not disarmed thee, Dryfesdale she 
said, on seeing him enter accoutred, as usual, with sword 
and dagger. 

“ No !” replied the old man ; “ how should they ? — 
Your ladyship, when you commanded me to ward, said 
nought of laying down my arms ; and, I think, none of 
your menials, without your order, or your son’s, dare ap- 
proach Jasper Dryfesdale for such a purpose. — Shall I 
now give up my sword to you F — it is worth little now, 
for it has fought for your house till it is worn down to old 
iron, like the pantler’s old chipping knife.” 


THE ABBOT. 


177 


“ You have attempted a deadly crime — poison under 
trust.” 

“ Under trust ? — hem! — I know not what your lady- 
ship thinks of it, but the world without thinks the trust 
was given you even for that very end ; and you would 
have been well off had it been so ended as 1 proposed, 
and you neitber the worse nor the wiser.” 

“ Wretch !” exclaimed the lady, “ and fool as well as 
villain, who could not even execute the crime he had 
planned !” 

“ I bid as fair for it as man could,” replied Dryfesdale ; 
“ I went to a wmman— a witch and a papist — If I found 
not poison, it was because it was otherwise predestined. 
I tried fair for it; but the half-done job may be clouted, 
if you will.” 

“ Villain ! 1 am even now about to send off an express 
messenger to my son, to take order how thou shouldstbe 
disposed of. Prepare thyself for death, if thou canst.” 

“ He that looks on death, lady,” answered Dryfesdale, 
“ as that which he may not shun, and which has its own 
fixed and certain hour, is ever prepared for it. He that 
is hanged in May will eat no flaunes^in Midsummer — so 
there is the moan made for the old serving-man. But 
whom, pray I, send you on so fair an errand 

“ There will be no lack of messengers,” answered his 
mistress. 

“ By my hand, but there will,” replied the old man ; 
“ your castle is but poorly manned, considering the 
watches that you must keep, having this charge — There 
is the warder, and two others, whom you discarded lor 
tampering with Master George ; then for the warder’s 
tower, the baillie, the donjon — five men mount each 
guard, and the rest must sleep for the most part in their 
clothes. To send away another man, were to harass the 
sentinels to death — unthrifty misuse for a household. 
To take in new soldiers were dangerous, the charge re- 
quiring tried men. I see but one thing for it — 1 will do 
your errand to Sir William Douglas myself.” 

That were indeed a resource ! — And on what day 
within twenty years would it be done F” said the lady. 


178 


THE AUBOT. 


“ Even with the speed of man and horse,” said Dryfes- 
dale ; “ for though I care not much about the latter days 
of an old serving-man’s life, yet I would like to know 
as soon as may be whether my neck is mine own, or the 
hangman’s.” 

“ Boldest thou thy own life so lightly said the lady. 

‘‘ Else 1 had recked more of that of others,” said the 
predestinarian.“-“ What is death ? — it is but ceasing to 
live — And what is living ? — a weary return of light and 
darkness, sleeping and waking, being hungered and eat- 
ing. Your dead man needs neither candle nor can, 
neither fire nor feather-bed ; and the joiner’s chest serves 
him for an eternal freize-jerkin.” 

“ Wretched man ! believest thou not that after 
death comes the judgment 

“ Lady,” answered Dryfesdale, “ as my mistress, I 
may not dispute your words ; but, as spiritually speak- 
ing, you are still but a burner of bricks in Egypt, igno- 
rant of the freedom of the saints ; for, as was well shown 
to me by that gifted man, Nicolaus Schcefierbach, who 
was martyred by the bloody Bishop of Munster, he can- 
not sin who doth but execute that which is predestined, 
since” 

“ Silence !” said the Lady, interrupting him,— “ An- 
swer me not with thy bold and presumptuous blasphemy, 
but hear me. Thou hast been long the servant of our 
house” 

“ The born-servant of the Douglas — they have had 
the best of me — I served them since I left Lockerbie : 
I was then ten years old, and you may soon add the 
threescore to it.” 

“ Thy foul attempt has miscarried, so thou art guilty 
only in intention. It were a deserved deed to hang thee 
on the w'arder’s tower ; and yet, in thy present mind, it 
were but giving a soul to Satan. 1 take thine offer, then 
— Go hence — here is my packet — 1 will add to it but a 
line, to desire him to send me a faithful servant or two to 
complete the garrison. Let my son deal with you as he 
will. If thou art wise, thou wilt make for Lockerbie so 


THE ABBOT. 


179 


soon as thy foot touches dry land, and let the packet find 
another bearer ; at all rates, look it miscarries not.” 

“ Nay, madam,” replied he — “ I ivas born, as I said, 
the Douglas’s servant, and I will be no corbie-messen- 
ger in mine old age — your message to your son shall be 
done as truly by me as if it concerned another man’s 
neck. 1 take my leave of your honour.” 

The Lady issued her commands, and the old man was 
ferried over to the shore, to proceed on his extraordinary 
pilgrimage. It is necessary the reader should accom- 
pany him on his journey, which Providence had deter- 
mined should not be of long duration. 

On arriving at the village, the steward, although his 
disgrace had transpired, was readily accommodated with 
a horse, by the Chamberlain’s authority ; and the-roads 
being by no means esteemed safe, he associated himself 
with Auchtermuchty, the common carrier, in order to 
travel in his company to Edinburgh. 

The worthy wagoner, according to the established 
custom of all carriers, stage-coachmen, and other persons 
in such public authority, from the earliest days to the 
present, never wanted good reasons for stopping upon 
the road, as often as he would ; and the place which 
had most captivation for him as a resting-place was a 
change-house, as it was termed, not very distant from 
a romantic dell, well known by the name of Keirie 
Craigs. Attractions of a kind very different from those 
wliich arrested the progress of John Auchtermuchty and 
his wains, still continue to hover round this romantic spot, 
and none has visited its vicinity without a desire to re- 
main long and to return soon. ^ 

Arrived near his favourite howjf, not all the authority 
of Dryfesdale (much diminished indeed by the rumours 
of his disgrace) could prevail on the carrier, obstinate as 
the brutes which he drove, to pass on without his accus- 
tomed halt, for which the distance he had travelled fur- 
nished little or no pretence. Old Keltie, the landlord, 
who has bestowed his natne on a bridge in the neighbour- 
hood of his quondam dwelling, received the carrier with 


180 


THE AEEOT. 


his usual festive cordiality, and adjourned with him into 
tlie house, under pretence of important business, which, 
I believe, consisted in tiieir emptying together a mutch- 
kin stoup of usquebaugh. Wliile the worthy host and 
his guest were thus employed, the discarded steward, 
with a double portion of moroseness in his gesture and 
look, walked discontentedly into the kitchen of the place, 
which was occupied but by one guest. The stranger 
was a slight figure, scarce above the age of boyhood, and 
in the dress of a page, but bearing an air of haughty aris- 
tocratic boldness and even insolence in his look and man- 
ner, that might have made Dryfesdale conclude he had 
pretensions to superior rank, had not his experience taught 
him how frequently these airs of superiority were assum- 
ed by the domestics and military retainers of the Scot- 
tish nobility. — “ The pilgrim’s morning to you, old sir,'’ 
said the youth ; “ you come, as I think, from Lochleven 
Castle — What news of our bonny Queen ? — a fairer dove 
was never pent up in so wretched a dovecot.” 

“ They that speak of Lochleven, and of those whom its 
walls contain,” answered Dryfesdale, “ speak of what 
concerns the Douglas ; and they who speak of what con- 
cerns the Douglas, do it at their peril.” 

“ Do you speak from fear of them, old man, or would 
you make a quarrel for them — I should have deemed 
your age might have cooled your blood.” 

“ Never, while there are empty-pated coxcombs at 
each corner to keep it warm.” 

“ The sight of thy grey hairs keeps mine cold,” said 
the boy, who had risen up and now sat down again. 

“ It is well for thee, or I had cooled it with this holly- 
rod,” replied the steward. “ I think thou be’st one ot 
those swaslibucklers, who brawl in ale-houses and tav- 
erns ; and who, if words were pikes, and oaths were 
Andrew Ferraras, would soon place the religion of Baby- 
lon in the land once more, and the woman of Moab upon 
the throne.” 


THE All ROT. 


181 


“ Now, by Saint Bennet of Seyton,” said the youth, 
“ I will strike thee on tlie face, thou foul-mouthed old 
railing heretic !” 

“ Saint Bennet of Seyton 1” echoed the steward ; “ a 
proper warrant is Saint Bennet’s, and for a proper nest 
of wolf-birds like the Seytons!— I will arrest thee as a 

traitor to King James and the good Regent. Ho ! 

John Auchtermuchty, raise aid against the King’s traitor !” 

So saying, he laid his hand on the youth’s collar, and 
drew his sword. John Auchtermuchty looked in, but, 
seeing the naked weapon, ran faster out than he entered. 
Keltie, the landlord, stood by and helped neither party, 
only exclaiming, “ Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! for the love 
of Heaven !” and so forth. A struggle ensued, in which 
the young man, chafed at Dryfesdale’s boldness, and un- 
able, with the ease he expected, to extricate himself from 
the old man’s determined grasp, drew his dagger, and, 
with the speed of light, dealt him three wounds in the 
breast and body, the least of which was mortal. The 
old man sunk on the ground with a deep groan, and the 
host set up a piteous exclamation of surprise. 

“ Peace, ye bawling hound !” said the wounded stew- 
ard ; “ are dagger-tstabs and dying men such rarities in 
Scotland, that you should cry as if the house were fall- 
ing ^ — Youth, 1 do not forgive thee, for there is nought be- 
twixt us to forgive. Thou hast done what I have done 
to more than one — And 1 suffer what I have seen them 
suffer — it was all ordained to be thus and not otherwise 
— But if thou wouldst do me right, thou wilt send this 
packet safely to the hands of Sir William of Douglas ; 
and see that niy memory suffer not, as if I would have 
loitered on mine errand for fear of my life.” 

The youth, whose passion had subsided the instant he 
had done the deed, listened with sympathy and attention, 
when another person, muffled in his cloak, entered the 
apartment, and exclaimed — “ Good God ! Dryfesdale 
and expiring !” 

16 VOL. II. 


182 


THE ABBOT. 


‘‘ Ay, and Dryfesdale would that he had been dead.” 
answered the wounded man, “ rather than that his ears 
had heard the words of the only Douglas that ever was 
false — but yet it is better as it is. Good my murderer, 
and the rest of you, stand back a little, and let me speak 
with this unhappy apostate. — Kneel down by me. Master 
George — You have heard that I failed in my attempt to 
take away that Moabitish stumbling-block and her retinue 
— I gave them that which I thought would have removed 
the temptation out of thy path — and this, though 1 had 
other reasons to show to thy mother and others, I did 
chiefly purpose for love of thee.” 

“ For the love of me, base poisoner !” answered Dou- 
glas, Wouldst thou have committed so horrible, so un- 
provoked a murder, and mentioned my name with it 
“ And wherefore not, George of Douglas ?” answered 
Dryfesdale. “ Breath is now scarce witli me, but 1 would 
spend my last gasp on this argument. Hast thou not, des- 
pite the honour thou owest to thy parents, the faith that is 
due to thy religion, the truth that is due to thy King, been 
so carried away by the charms of this beautiful sorceress, 
that thou wouldst have helped her to escape from her 
prison-house, and lent her thine arm again to ascend the 
throne, which she had made a place of abomination f — 
Nay, stir not from me — my hand, though fast stiffening, 
has yet force enough to hold thee. — What dost thou aim 
at f — to wed this witch of Scotland ? — 1 warrant thee, 
thou mayst succeed — her heart and hand have been oft 
won at a cheaper rate, than thou, fool that thou art, would 
think thyself happy to pay. But, should a servant of 
thy father’s house have seen thee embrace the fate of 
the idiot Darnley, or of the villain Bothwell — the fate of 
the murdered fool, or of the living pirate — while an ounce 
of ratsbane would have saved thee 

“ Think on God, Dryfesdale,” said George Douglas, 
“ and leave the utterance of those horrors — Repent if 
thou canst — if not, at least be silent. — Seyton, aid me to 
support this dying wretch, that he may compose himself 
to better thoughts, if it be possible.” 


THE ABBOT. 


183 


“ Seyton !” answered the dying man 5 “ Seyton ! Is 
it by a Seyton’s hand that I fall at last? — there is some- 
thing of retribution in that — since the liouse had nigh lost 
a sister by my deed.” Fixing his fading eyes on the 
youth, he added, “ He hath her very features and pres- 
ence ! — Stoop down, youth, and let me see thee closer — 
I would know thee when we meet in yonder world, for 
homicides will herd together there, and I have been one.” 
He pulled Seyton’s face in spite of some resistance, 
closer to his own, looked at him fixedly, and added, 
“ Thou hast begun young — thy career will be the briefer 
— ay, thou wilt be met with, and that anon — a young 
plant never throve that was watered with an old man’s 
blood. — Yet why blame I thee ? Strange turns of fate,” 
he muttered, ceasing to address Seyton, “ I designed what 
I could not do, and he has done what he did not per- 
chance design. — Wondrous, that our will should ever op- 
pose itself to the strong and uncontrollable tide of destiny 
— that we should strive with the stream when we might 
drift with the current ! My brain will serve me to ques- 
tion it no farther — I would SchoefFerbach were here — yet 
why ? — 1 am on a course which the vessel can hold with- 
out a pilot. — Farewell, George of Douglas — 1 die true 
to thy father’s house.” He fell into convulsions at these 
words, and shortly after expired. 

Seyton and Douglas stood looking on the dying man, 
and when the scene was closed, the former was the first 
to speak. “ As 1 live, Douglas, I meant not this, and am 
sorry ; but he laid hands on me, and compelled me to 
defend my freedom, as I best might, with my dagger. 
If he were ten times thy friend and follower, I can but 
say that I am sorry.” 

“ I blame thee not, Seyton,” said Douglas, “ though 
I lament the chance. There is an over-ruling destiny 
above us, though not in the sense in which it was viewed by 
that wretched man, who, beguiled by some foreign mysta- 
gogue, used the awful word as the ready apology for what- 
ever he chose to do— we must examine the packet.” 


184 


TIIE ABBOT. 


They withdrew into an inner room, and remained deep 
in consultation, until they were disturbed by the entrance 
of Keltic, who, with an embarrassed countenance, asked 
Master George Douglas’s pleasure respecting the dispo- 
sal of the body. “ Your honour knows,” he added, 
“ that I make my bread by living men, not by dead 
corpses ; and old Mr. Dryfesdale, who was but a sorry 
customer while he was alive, occupies my public room 
now that he is deceased, and can neither call for ale nor 
brandy.” 

“ Tie a stone round his heck,” said Seyton, ‘‘ and 
when the sun is down, have him to the Loch of Ore, 
heave him in, and let him alone for finding out the 
bottom.” 

“ Under your favour, sir,” said George Douglas, “ it 
shall not be so. — Keltic, thou art a true fellow to me, 
and thy having been so shall advantage thee. Send or 
take the body to the chapel at Scotland’s Wall, or to the 
church of Ballingry, and tell what tale thou wilt of his 
having fallen in a brawl with some unruly guests of thine. 
Auchtermuchty knows nought else, nor are the times so 
peaceful as to admit close looking into such accounts.” 

“ Nay, let him tell the truth,” said Seyton, “ so far as 
it harms not our scheme. — Say that Henry Seyton met 
with him, my good fellow — I care not a brass boddle for 
the feud.” 

“ A feud with the Douglas was ever to be feared, how- 
ever,” said George, displeasure mingling with his natural 
deep gravity of manner. 

“ Not when the best of the name is on my side,” re- 
plied Seyton. 

“ Alas ! Henry, if thou meanest me, I am but half a 
Douglas in this emprize — half head, half heart, and half 
hand — But 1 will think on one who can never be forgot- 
ten, and be all, or more, than any of my ancestors was 
ever. — Keltie, say it was Henry Seyton did the deed ; 
but beware, not a word of n)e ! — Let Auchtermuchty 
carry this packet (which he had resealed with his own 


THE ABBOT. 


185 


signet) to rny father at Edinburgh ; and here is to pay 
for the funeral expenses, and thy loss of custom.” 

“ And the washing of the floor,” said the landlord, 
“ which will be an extraordinary job ; for blood, they 
say, will scarcely* evei- cleanse out.” 

“ But as for your plan,” said George of Douglas, ad- 
dressing Seyton, as if in continuation of what they had 
been before treating of, “ it has a good face ; but, under 
your favour, you are yourself too hot and too young, be- 
sides other reasons which are much against your playing 
the part you propose.” 

“ We will consult the Father Abbot upon it,” said the 
youth. “ Do you ride to Kinross to-night 

“ Ay — sol purpose,” answered Douglas; “ the night 
will be dark, and suits a muffled man.®— Keltie, I forgot, 
there should be a stone laid on that man’s grave, record- 
ing his name, and his only merit, which was being a faith- 
ful servant to the Douglas.” 

“What religion was the man of.?” said Seyton; “he 
used words which made me fear I have sent Satan a sub- 
ject before his time.” 

“ 1 can tell you little of that,” said George Douglas ; 
“ he was noted for disliking both Rome and Geneva, and 
spoke of lights he had learned among the fierce sectaries 
of Lower Germany — an evil doctrine it was, if we judge 
by the fruits. God keep us from presumptuously judg- 
ing of Heaven’s secrets !” 

“ Amen !” said the young Seyton, “ and from meeting 
any encounter this evening.” 

“ It is not thy wont to pray so,” said George Douglas. 

“ No ! 1 leave that to you,” replied the youth, “ when 
you are seized with scruples of engaging with your fa- 
ther’s vassals. But I would fain have this old man’s blood 
off these hands of mine ere I shed more — I will confess 
to the Abbot to-night, and I trust to have light penance 
for ridding the earth of such a miscreant. All I sorrow 
for is, that he was not a score of years younger — He 
drew steel first, however, that is one comfort.” 

16* VOL. II. 


186 


THE ABBOT. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Ay, Pedro, — Come you here with mask and lantern. 

Ladder of ropes and other moonshine tools — 

Why, youngster, thou mayst cheat the old Duenna, 

Flatter the waiting-woman, bribe the valet ; 

But know, that I her father play the Gryphon, 

Tameless and sleepless, proof to fraud or bribe, 

And guard the hidden treasure of her beauty. 

The Sjianish Father. 

The tenor of our tale carries us back to the Castle of 
Lochleven, where we take up the order of events on the 
same remarkable day on which Dryfesdale had been dis- 
missed from the castle. It was past noon, the usual hour 
of dinner, yet no preparations seemed made for the 
Queen’s entertainment. Mary herself had retired into 
her own apartment, where she was closely engaged in 
writing. Her attendants were together in the presence- 
chamber, and much disposed to speculate on the delay 
of the dinner ; for it may be recollected that their break- 
fast had been interrupted. “ I believe in my conscience,” 
said the page, “ that having found the poisoning scheme 
miscarry, by having gone to the wrong merchant for their 
deadly wares, they are now about to try how famine will 
work upon us.” 

Lady Fleming was somewhat alarmed at this surmise, 
but comforted herself by observing that the chimney of 
the kitchen had reeked that whole day in a manner which 
contradicted the supposition. — Catherine Seyton pres- 
ently exclaimed, “ They were bearing the dishes across 
the court, marshalled by the Lady Lochleven herself, 
dressed out in her highest and stifFest ruff, with her part- 
let and sleeves of Cyprus, and her huge old-fashioned 
farthingale of crimson velvet.” 

“ I believe on my word,” said the page, approaching 
the window also, “ It was in that very farthingale that 


THE ABBOT. 


187 


she captivated the heart of gentle King Jamie, which 
procured our poor Queen lier precious bargain of a 
brother.” 

“ 'Ihat may hardly be, Master Roland,” answered the 
Lady Fleming, who was a great recorder of the changes 
of fashion, “ since the farthingales came first in when the 
Queen Regent went to Saint Andrews, after the battle 
of Pinkie, and were then call Vertugardins” 

She would have proceeded farther in this important 
discussion, but was interrupted by the entrance of the 
Lady of Lochleven, who preceded the servants bearing 
the dishes, and formally discharged the duty of tasting 
each of them. Lady Fleming regretted, in courtly 
phrase, that the Lady of Lochleven should have under- 
taken so troublesome an office. 

“ After the strange incident of this day, madam,” 
said the lady, “ it is necessary for my honour and tliat 
of my son, that I partake whatever is offered to my in- 
voluntary guest. Please to inform the Lady Mary that 
I attend her commands.” 

“ Her Majesty,” replied Lady Fleming, with due em- 
phasis on the word, “ shall be informed that the Lady 
Lochleven waits.” 

Mary appeared instantly, and addressed her hostess 
with courtesy, which even approached to something more 
cordial. “ This is nobly done. Lady Lochleven,” she 
said; “for though we ourselves apprehend no danger 
under your roof, our ladies have been much alarmed by 
this morning’s chance, and our meal will be the more 
cheerful for your presence and assurance. Please you 
to sit down.” 

The Lady Lochleven obeyed the Queen’s commands, 
and Roland performed the office of carver and attendant 
as usual. But, notwithstanding what the Queen had 
said, the meal was silent and unsocial ; and every effort 
which Mary made to excite some conversation, died away 
under the solemn and chill replies of the Lady of Locli- 
leven. At length it became plain that the Queen, who 
had considered these advances as a condescension 012 


188 


THE ABBOT. 


her part, and who piqued herself justly on her powers of 
pleasing, became offended at the repulsive conduct of 
her hostess. After looking with a significant glance at 
Lady, Fleming and Catherine, she slightly shrugged her 
shoulders, and remained silent. A pause ensued, at the 
end of which the Lady Douglas spoke: — “ I ()erceive. 
Madam, 1 am a check on the mirth of this fair company. 
I pray you to excuse me — 1 am a widow — alone here in 
a most perilous charge — deserted by my grandson — be- 
trayed by my servant — I am little worthy of the grace 
you do me in offering me a seat at your table, where I 
am aware that wit and pastime are usually expected from 
the guests.” 

“ If the Lady Lochleven is serious,” said the Queen, 
“ we wonder by what simplicity she expects our present 
meals to be seasoned with mirth. If she is a widow, 
she lives honoured and uncontrolled, at the head of her 
late husband’s household. But I know at least of one 
widowed woman in the world, before whom the words 
desertion and betrayal ought never to be mentioned, 
since no one has been made so bitterly acquainted with 
their import.” 

“ I meant not, madam, to remind you of your misfor- 
tunes, by the mention of mine,” answered the Lady Loch- 
leven, and there was again a deep silence. 

Mary at length addressed Lady Fleming. “ We can 
commit no deadly sins here, ma bonne, where we are so 
well warded and looked to ; but if we could, this Car- 
thusian silence might be useful as a kind of penance. If 
thou hast adjusted tny wimple amiss, my Fleming, or if 
Catherine hath made a wry stitch in her broidery, when 
she was thinking of something else than her work, or if 
Roland Graeme hath missed a wild-duck on the wing, 
and broke a quarrel-pane^of glass in the turret window, 
as chanced to him a week since, now is the time to think 
on your sins and to repent of them.” 

“ Madam, I speak with all reverence,” said the Lady 
Lochleven ; “ but 1 am old, and claim the privilege of 
age. Melhinks your followers might find filter subjects 


THE ABBOT. 


189 


for repentance than the trifles you mention, and so men- 
tion — once more, I crave your pardon — as if you jested 
with sin and repentance both.” 

“ You have been our taster. Lady Lochleven,*?.’ said 
the Queen, “ I perceive you would eke out your duty 
with tliat of our Father Confessor — and since you choose 
that our conversation should be serious, may I ask you 
why the Regent’s promise — since your son so styles him- 
self — has not been kept to me in that respect ^ From 
time to time this promise has been renewed and as con- 
stantly broken. Methinks those who pretend themselves to 
so much gravity and sanctity, should not debar from others 
the religious succours which their consciences require.” 

“ Madam, the Earl Murray was indeed weak enough,” 
said the Lady Lochleven, “ to give so far way to your un- 
happy prejudices, and a religioner of the Pope presented 
himself on his part at our town of Kinross. But the 
Douglas is Lord of his own castle, and will not permit 
his threshold to be darkened, no not for a single moment, 
by an emissary belonging to the Bishop of Rome.” 

“ Methinks it were well, then,” said Mary, “ that my 
Lord Regent would send me where there is less scruple 
and more charity.” 

“ In this, madam,” answered the Lady Lochleven, 
“ you mistake the nature both of charity and of religion. 
Charity giveth to those who are in delirium the medic- 
aments which may avail their health, but refuses those 
enticing cates and liquors which please the palate, but 
augment the disease. 

“ This your charity. Lady Lochleven, is pure cruelty, 
under the hypocritical disguise of friendly care. 1 am 
oppressed amongst you as if you meant the destruction 
both of rny body and soul ; but Heaven will not endure 
such iniquity for ever, and they who are the most active 
agents in it may speedily expect their reward.” 

At this moment Randal entered the apartment, with 
a look so much perturbed, that the Lady Fleming utter- 
ed a faint scream, the Queen was obviously startled, 
and the Lady of Lochleven, though too bold and proud 


190 


THE ABBOT. 


to evince any marked signs of alarm, asked hastily U'hat 
was the matter ? 

“ Dryfesdale has been slain, madam,” was the reply ; 
“ murdered as soon as he gained the dry land by young 
Master Henry Seylon.” 

It was now Catherine’s turn to start and grow pale — 
“ Has the murderer of the Douglas’s vassal escaped ?” 
W'as the lady’s hasty question. 

“ There was none to challenge him but old Keltie, 
and the carrier Auchtermuchty,” replied Randal ; “ un- 
likely men to stay one of the frackest* youths in Scot- 
land of his years, and who was sure to have friends and 
partakers at no great distance.” 

Was the deed completed said the Lady. 

“ Done, and done thoroughly,” said Randal ; “ a 
Seyton seldom strikes twice — But the body was not 
despoiled, and your honour’s packet goes forward to 
Edinburgh by Auchtermuchty, who leaves Keltie-Bridge 
early to-morrow — marry, he has drunk two bottles of 
aquavitae to put the friglit out of his head, and now sleeps 
them off beside his cart-avers.”f 

There was a pause when this fatal tale was told. The 
Queen and Lady Douglas looked on each other, as if 
each thought how she could best turn the incident to her 
own advantage in the controversy, which was continually 
kept alive betwixt them — Catherine Seyton kept her 
kerchief at her eyes and wept. 

“ You see, madam, the bloody maxims and practice 
of the deluded papists,” said Lady Lochleven. 

“ Nay, madam,” replied the Queen, “ say rather you 
see the deserved judgment of Heaven upon a Calvinis- 
tical poisoner.” 

“ Dryfesdale was not of the Church of Geneva or of 
Scotland,” said the Lady Lochleven, hastily. 

“ He was a heretic, however,” replied Mary ; “ there 
is but one true and unerring guide, the others lead alike 
into error.” 


* Boldest — most forward, 


t Cart-horses, 


THE ABBOT. 


191 


** Well, madam, I trust it will reconcile you to your 
retreat, that this deed shows the temper of those who 
might wish you at liberty. Blood-thirsty tyrants, and 
cruel man-quellers are they all, from the Clan-Ranald 
and Clan-Tosach in the north, to the Ferniherst and 
Bucclcuch in the south — the murdering Seytons in the 
east, and” 

“ Methinks, madam, you forget that I am a Seyton 
said Catherine, withdrawing her kerchief from her face, 
which u'as now coloured with indignation. 

“ If 1 had forgot it, fair mistress, your forward bearing 
would have reminded me,” said Lady Lochleven. 

“ If my brother has slain the villain that would have 
poisoned his Sovereign, and his sister,” said Catherine, 
“ I am only so fiir sorry that he should have spared the 
hangman his proper task. For aught further, had it 
been the best Douglas in the land, he would have been 
honoured in falling by the Seyton sword.” 

“ Farewell, gay mistress,” said the Lady of Lochle- 
ven, rising to withdraw ; “ it is such maidens as you, 
who make giddy-fashioned revellers and deadly brawlers. 
Boys must needs rise, forsooth, in the grace of some 
sprightly damsel, who thinks to dance through life as 
through a French galliard.” She then made her rever- 
ence to the Queen, and added, “ Do you also, madam, 
fare you well, till curfew time, when I will make per- 
chance, more bold than welcome in attending upon your 
supper-board. — Come with me, Randal, and tell me 
more of this cruel fact.” 

“ ’Tis an extraordinary chance,” said the Queen, 
when she had departed ; “ and, villain as he was, I would 
this man had been spared time for repentance. We will 
cause something to be done for his soul, if we ever attain 
our liberty, and the Church will permit such grace to 
an heretic. — But, tell me, Catherine, ma mignonne — 
this brother of thine, who is so /rack as the fellow call- 
ed him, bears he the same wonderful likeness to thee 
as formerly 


192 


THE ABBOT. 


‘‘ If your grace means in temper, you know whether 1 
am so /rack as ihe serving -man spoke him.” 

“Nay, thou art prompt enough in all reasonable con- 
science,” replied the Queen ; “ but thou art my own 
darling notwithstanding — But I meant, is this thy twin- 
brother as like thee in form and features as formerly ? 1 
remember thy dear mother alleged it as a reason for 
destining thee to the veil, that, were ye both to go at 
large, thou wouldst surely get the credit of some of thy 
brother’s mad pranks.” 

“ I believe, madam,” said Catherine, “ there are some 
unusually simple people even yet, who can hardly dis- 
tinguish betwixt us, especially when, for diversion’s sake, 
my brother hath taken a female dress,” — and, as she 
sj)oke, she gave a quick glance at Roland Graeme, to 
whom this conversation conveyed a ray of light, welcome 
as ever streamed into the dungeon of a captive through 
the door which opened to give him freedom. 

“ He must be a handsome cavalier this brother of 
thine, if he be so like you,” replied Mary. “ He was in 
Fi ’ance, I think, for these late years, so that 1 saw him 
not at Holyrood.” 

“ His looks, madam, have never been much found fault 
with,” answered Catherine Seyton ; “ but I W'ould he 
had less of that angry and heady spirit which evil times 
have encouraged amongst our young nobles. God knows, 
I grudge not his life in your Grace’s quarrel ; and love 
him for the willingness with which be labours for your 
rescue. But wherefore should he brawl with an old 
ruffianly serving-man, and stain at once his name wdth 
such a broil, and his hands with the blood of an old and 
ignoble w'retch 

“ Nay, be patient, Catherine ; Iwill not have thee tra- 
duce my gallant young knight. With Henry for my 
knight, and Roland Grteme for my trusty squire, me- 
thinks I am like a princess of romance, who may shortly 
set at defiance the dungeons and the weapons of all 
wicked sorcerers — But my head aches with the agitation 
of the day. Take me La Alcr des Uistoires, and resume 


THE AUBOT. 


193 


where we left ofT on Wednesday. — Oiir Lady help thy 
head, girl, or rather may she help thy heart ! — I asked 
thee for the Sea of Histories, and thou hast brought La 
Cronique (T Amours'’ 

Once embarked upon the Sea of Histories, the Queen 
continued her labours with her needle, while Lady 
Fleming and Catherine read to her alternately for two 
hours. 

As to Roland Grfeme, it is probable that he continued 
in secret intent upon the Chronicle of Love, notwith- 
standing the censure which the Queen seemed to pass 
upon that branch of study. He now remembered a 
thousand circumstances of voice and manner, which, 
had his own prepossession been less, must surely have 
discriminated the brother from the sister ; and he felt 
ashamed, that, having as it were by heart every particular 
of Catherine’s gestures, words, and manners, he should 
have thought her, notwithstanding her spirits and levity, 
capable of assuming the bold step, loud tones, and for- 
ward assurance, which accorded well enough with her 
brother’s hasty and masculine character. He endeav- 
oured repeatedly to catch a glance of Catherine’s eye, 
that he might judge how she was disposed to look upon 
him since he had made the discovery, but he was un- 
successful ; for Catherine, when she was not reading 
herself, seemed to take so much interest in the exploits 
of the Teutonic knights against the Heathens of Estho- 
nia and Livonia, that he could not surprise her eye even 
for a second. But when, closing the book, the Queen 
commanded their attendance in the garden, Mary, per- 
haps of set purpose, (for Roland’s anxiety could not es- 
cape so practised an observer,) afforded him a favoura- 
ble opportunity of accosting his mistress. The Queen 
commanded them to a little distance, while she engaged 
Lady Fleming in a particular and private conversation ; 
the subject whereof, we learn from another authority, to 
have been the comparative excellence of the high stand- 
ing ruff and the falling band. Roland must have been 
17 VOL. II. 


194 


THE ABBOT. 


duller, and more sheepish than ever was youthful lover, 
if he had not endeavoured to avail himself of tills op- 
portunity. 

“ 1 have been longing this whol"' r-v-:'— ~ r 'h . 
fair Catherine,” said the page, “ . . i. a 

prehensive you must have thougl ' • 

to mistake betwixt your brother ai; • ' 

“ The circumstance does inde .‘i . ■" 

rustic manners,” said Catherine, “ since those of a wild 
young man were so readily mistaken for mine. But 1 
shall grow wiser in time ; and with that view J am deter- 
mined not to think of your follies, but to correct my own.” 

“ It will be the lighter subject of meditation of the 
two,” said Roland. 

“ I know not that,” said Catherine, very gravely ; “ I 
fear we have been both unpardonably foolish.” 

“ I have been mad,” said Roland, “ unpardonably 
mad. But you, lovely Catherine” 

“ I,” said Catherine, in the same tone of unusual grav- 
ity, “ have too long suffered you to use such expressions 
towards me — I fear I can permit it no longer, and 1 
blame myself for the pain it may give you.” 

“ And what can have happened so suddenly to change 
our relation to each other, or alter, with such sudden 
cruelty, your whole deportment to me f” 

“ 1 can hardly tell,” replied Catherine, ‘‘ unless it is 
that the events of the day have impressed on my mind 
the necessity of our observing more distance to each 
other. A chance similar to that which betrayed to you 
the existence of my brother, may make known to Hen- 
ry the terms you have used to me ; and, alas ! his whole 
conduct, as well as his deed this day, makes me too 
justly apprehensive of the consequences.” 

“ Nay, fear nothing for that, fair Catherine,” answered 
the page ; “ I am well able to protect myself against 
risks of that nature.” 

“ That is to say,” replied she, “ that you would fight 
with my twin-brother to show your regard for his sister ? 

I have heard the Queen say, in her sad hours, that mcK 


THE ABBOT. 


195 


are, in love or in hate, the most selfish animals of cre- 
ation ; and your carelessness in this matter looks very 
like it. But be not so much abashed — you are no worse 
than others.” 

“ You do me injustice, Catherine,” replied the page, 
“ I thought but of being threatened with a sword, and 
did not remember in whose hand your fancy had placed 
it. If your brother stood before me, with his drawn 
weapon in his hand, so like as he is to you in word, per- 
son and favour, he might shed my life’s-blood ere I could 
find in my heart to resist him to his injury.” 

“ Alas !” said she, “ it is not my brother alone. But 
you remember only the singular circumstances in which 
we have met in equality, and I may say in intimacy. 
You think not, that whenever I re-enter my father’s 
house there is a gulph between us you may not pass, but 
with peril of your life. — Your only known relative is of 
wild and singular habits, of a hostile and broken clan^®- 
the rest of your lineage unknown — forgive me that I 
speak what is the undeniable truth.” 

“ Love, my beautiful Catherine, despises genealogies,” 
answered Roland Graeme. 

“ Love may, but so will not the Lord Seyton,” re- 
ioined the damsel. 

“ The Queen, thy mistress and mine, she will inter- 
cede. O ! drive me not from you at the moment I 
thought myself most happy! — and if I shall aid her de- 
liverance, said not yourself that you and she would be- 
come my debtors .^” 

“ All Scotland will become your debtors,” said Cath- 
erine ; “ but for the active effects you might hope from 
our gratitude, you must remember I am wholly subjected 
to my father ; and the poor Queen is, for a long time 
more likely to be dependent on the pleasure of the nobles 
of her party, than possessed of power to control them.” 

“ Be it so,” replied Roland ; “ my deeds shall con- 
trol prejudice itself — it is a bustling world, and I wdll have 
my share. The Knight of Avenel, high as he now stands 
rose from as obscure an origin as mine.” 


196 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Ay !” said Catherine, “ there spoke the doughty 
knight of romance, that will cut his way tO/the impris- 
oned princess, through fiends and fiery dragons!” 

“ But if 1 can set the princess at large, and procure 
her the freedom of her own choice,” said the page, 
“where, dearest Catherine, will that choice alight?” 

“Release the princess from duresse, and she will tell 
you,” said the damsel ; and breaking off the conversa- 
tion abruptly, she joined the Queen so suddenly, that 
Mary exclaimed, half aloud — 

“ No more tidings of evil import — no dissention, 1 trust, 
in my limited household ?” — Then looking on Cather- 
ine’s blushing cheek, and Roland’s expanded brow and 
glancing eye — “ No — no,” she said, “ I see all is well — 
Ma petite mignonne, go to my apartment and fetch me 
down — let me see — ay, fetch my pomander box.” 

And having thus disposed of her attendant in the man- 
ner best qualified to hide her confusion, the Queen add- 
ed, speaking apart to Roland, “ I should at least have 
two grateful subjects of Catherine and you ; for what 
sovereign but Mary would aid true-love so willingly ? — 
Ay, you lay your hand on your sword — your petite jlam- 
herge a rien there — Well, short time will show if all the 
good be true that is protested to us. — 1 hear them toll 
curfew from Kinross. To our chamber — this old dame 
hath promised to be with us again at our evening meal. 
Were it not for the hope of speedy deliverance, her 
presence would drive me distracted. But I will be 
patient.” 

“ J profess,” said Catherine, who just then entered, “ I 
would I could be Henry, with all a man’s privileges for 
one moment — I long to throw my plate at that confect of 
pride, and formality, and ill-nature.” 

The Lady Fleming reprimanded her young compan- 
ion for this explosion of impatience ; the Queen laughed, 
and they went to the presence-chamber, where almost 
immediately entered supper, and the Lady of the Castle. 
The Queen, strong in her prudent resolutions, endured her 


THE ABBOT* 


197 


presence with great fortitude and equanimity, until her pa- 
tience was disturbed by a new form, which had hitherto 
made no part of the ceremonial of the Castle. When the 
other attendant had retired, Randal entered, bearing the 
keys of the Castle fastened upon a chain, and announcing 
that the watch was set, and the gates locked, delivered 
the keys with all reverence to the Lady of Lochleven. 

The Queen and her ladies exchanged with each other 
a look of disappointment, anger, and vexation, and Mary 
said aloud, “ We cannot regret the smallness of our 
court, when we see our hostess discharge in person so 
many of its offices. In addition to her charges of prin- 
cipal steward of our household and grand almoner, she 
has to-night done duty as captain of our guard.” 

“ And will continue to do so in future, madam,” an- 
swered the Lady Lochleven, with much gravity ; “ the 
history of Scotland may teach me how ill the duty is 
performed, which is done by an accredited deputy — We 
have heard, madam, of favourites of later date, and as 
little merit, as Oliver Sinclair. 

‘‘ O, madam,” replied the Queen, “ my father had 
his female as well as his male favourites — there were the 
Ladies Sandilands and OlifauntJ^and some others, me- 
thinks ; but their names cannot survive in the memory 
of so grave a person as you.” 

The Lady Lochleven looked as if she could have 
slain the Queen on the spot, but commanded her tem- 
per, and retired from the apartment, bearing in her hand 
the ponderous bunch of keys. 

“ Now’ God be praised for that woman’s youthful frail- 
ty!” said the Queen. “ Had she not that weak point in 
her character, I might waste my words on her in vain — 
But that stain is the very reverse of what is said of the 
witch’s mark — T can make her feel there, though she is 
otherwise insensible all over — But how say you, girls — 
here is a new difficulty — How are these keys to be come 
by ^ — there is no deceiving or bribing this dragon, I trow.” 

17* VOL n 


198 


THE ABBOT. 


“ May I crave to know,” said Roland, “ whether, if 
your Grace were beyond the walls of the castle, you 
could find means of conveyance to the firm land, and 
protection when you are there.” 

“ Trust us for that, Roland,” said the Queen ; “ for 
to that point our scheme is indifferent well laid.” 

“ Then if your Grace will permit me to speak my 
mind, 1 think I could be of some use in this matter.” 

“ As how, my good youth — speak on,” said the 
Queen, “ and fearlessly.” 

“ My patron the Knight of Avenel used to compel the 
youth educated in his household to learn the use of axe 
and hammer, and working in wood and iron — be used to 
speak of old northern champions, who forged their own 
weapons, and of the Highland Captain, Donald nan Ord, 
or Donald of the Hammer, whom he himself knew, and 
who used to work at the anvil with a sledge-hammer in 
each hand. Some said he praised this art, because he 
was himself of churl’s blood. However, 1 gained some 
practice in it, as the Lady Catherine Seyton partly 
knows ; for since we were here I wrought her a silver 
brooch.” 

Ay,” replied Catherine, “but you should tell her 
Grace that your workmanship was. so indifferent that it 
broke to pieces next day, and 1 flung it away.” 

“ Believe her not, Roland,” said the Queen ; “ she 
wept when it was broken, and put the fragments into her 
bosom. But for your scheme — could your skill avail to 
forge a second set of keys 

“ No, madam, because I know not the wards. But 1 
am convinced I could make a set so like that hateful 
bunch which the lady bore off even now, that could they 
be exchanged against them by any means, she would 
never dream she was possessed of the wrong.” 

“ And the good dame, thank heaven, is somewhat 
blind,” said the Queen ; “but then fora forge, my boy, 
and the means of labouring unobserved?” 

“ The armourer’s forge, at which I used sometimes to 
work with him, is the round vault at the bottom <of the 


THE ABBOT. 


199 


turret — be was dismissed with the warder for being sup- 
posed too much attached to George Douglas. The 
people are accustomed to see me busy there, and I war- 
rant I shall find some excuse that will pass current with 
them for putting bellows and anvil to work.” 

“ The scheme has a promising face,” said the Queen ; 
“ about it, my lad, with all speed, and beware the nature 
of your work is not discovered.” 

“ Nay, I will take the liberty to draw the bolt against 
chance visiters, so that I will have time to put away what 
I am working upon, before 1 undo the door.” 

“ Will not that of itself attract suspicion, in a place 
where it is so current already said Catherine. 

“ Not a whit,” replied Roland ; “ Gregory the arm- 
ourer, and every good hammerman, locks himself in 
when he is about some masterpiece of craft. Besides, 
something must be risked.” 

“ Part we then to-night,” said the Queen, “ and God 
bless you, my children! — If Mary’s head ever rises above 
water, you shall all rise along with her.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

It is a time of danger, not of revel, 

When churchmen turn to maskers. 

Spanish Father. 

The enterprize of Roland Grteme appeared to pros- 
per. A trinket or two, of which the work did not sur- 
pass the substance, (for the materials were silver, sup- 
plied by the Queen) were judiciously presented to those 
most likely to be inquisitive into the labours of the forge 
and anvil, which they thus were induced to reckon profit- 
able to others and harmless in itself. Openly, the page 
was seen working about such trifles. In private, he 


200 


THE ABBOT. 


forged a number of keys resembling so nearly in weight 
and in form those which were presented every evening 
to the Lady Lochleven, that, on a slight inspection, it 
would have been difficult to perceive the difference. He 
brought them to the dark rusty colour by the use of salt 
and water ; and, in the triumph of his art, presented 
them at length to Queen Mary in her presence-chamber, 
about an hour before the tolling of the curfew. She 
looked at them with pleasure, but at the same time with 
doubt. — “ I allow,” she said, “ that the Lady Lochle- 
ven’s eyes, which are not of the clearest, may be well 
deceived, could we pass those keys on her, in place of 
the real implements of her tyranny. But how is this to 
be done, and which of my little court dare attempt this 
tour de jongleur with any chance of success Could 
we but engage her in some earnest matter of argument 
— but those which 1 hold with her, always have been of 
a kind which make lier grasp her keys the faster, as if 
she said to herself — Here I hold what sets me above 
your taunts and reproaches — And even for her liberty, 
Mary Stuart could not stoop to speak the proud heretic 
fair. — What shall we do ? Shall Lady Fleming try her 
eloquence in describing the last new head-tire from 
Paris ^ — Alas ! the good dame has not changed the fash- 
ion of her head-gear since Pinkiefield, for aught that I 
know. Shall my mignonne Catherine sing to her one 
of those touching airs, which draw the very souls out of 
me and Roland Graeme f — Alas ! Dame Margaret Doug- 
las would rather hear a Huguenot psalm of Clement Mar- 
rot, sung to the tune of Reveillez vous^ belle endormie . — 
Cousins and liege counsellors, what is to be done, for our 
wits are really astray in this matter ? — Must our man-at- 
arms and the champion of our body, Roland Graeme, 
manfully assault the old lady, and take the keys from her 
par voie du fait 

“ Nay ! with your Grace’s permission,” said Roland, 
“ I do not doubt being able to manage the matter with 
more discretion ; for though, in your Grace’s service, 1 
do not fear” 


THE ABliOT. 


201 


“ A host of old women,” interrupted Catherine, “ each 
armed with rock and spindle, yet he has no fancy for 
pikes and partizans which might rise at the cry of Help ! 
a Douglas, a Douglas /” 

“ They that do not fear fair ladies’ tongues,” contin- 
ued the page, “ need dread nothing else. — But, gracious 
Liege, I am well nigh satisfied that 1 could pass the ex- 
change of these keys on the Lady Lochleven ; but I 
dread the sentinel who is now planted nightly in the 
garden, which, by necessity, we must traverse.” 

“ Our last advices from our friend on the shore have 
promised us assistance in that matter,” replied the Queen. 

“ And is your Grace well assured of the fidelity and 
watchfulness of those without .^” 

“ For their fidelity, I will answer with my life, and for 
their vigilance, 1 will answer with my life. I will give 
thee instant proof, my faithful Roland, that they are in- 
genuous and trusty as thyself. Come hither — Nay, 
Catherine, attend us ; we carry not so deft a page into 
our private chamber alone. Make fast the door of the 
parlour, Fleming, and warn us if you hear the least step 
— or stay, go thou to the door, Catherine, (in a whisper) 
thy ears and thy wits are both sharper. — Good Fleming, 
attend us thyself — (and again she whispered) her rever- 
end presence will be as safe a watch on Roland as thine 
can — so be not jealous, mignonne.” 

Thus speaking, they were lighted by the Lady Flem- 
ing into the Queen’s bed-room, a small apartment enlight- 
ened by a projecting window. 

Look from that window, Roland,” she said ; “ see 
you amongst the several lights which begin to kindle, and 
to glimmer palely through the grey of the evening from 
the village of Kinross — Seest thou, I say, one solitary 
spark apart from the others, and nearer it seems to the 
verge of the water ? — It is no brighter at this distance 
than the torch of the poor glowworm, and yet, my good 
youth, that light is more dear to Mary Stuart, than every 
star that twinkles in the blue vault of Heaven. By that 
signal, I know that more than one true heart are plotting 
my deliverance j and without that consciousness, and the 


202 


THE ABBOT. 


hope of freedom it gives me, I had long since stooped 
to my fate, and died of a broken heart. Plan after plan 
has been formed and abandoned, but still the light glim- 
mers, and while it glimmers, my hope lives. — O ! how 
many evenings have I sat musing in despair over our 
ruined schemes, and scarce hoping that 1 should again 
see that blessed signal ; when it has suddenly kindled, 
and, like the lights of Saint Elmo in a tempest, brought 
hope and consolation, where there was only dejection and 
despair !” 

“ If I mistake not,” answered Roland, “ the candle 
shines from the house of Blinkhoolie, the mail-gardener.” 

“ Thou hast a good eye,” said the Queen ; “ it is 
there where my trusty lieges — God and the saints pour 
blessings on them ! — hold consultation for my deliver- 
ance. The voice of a wretched captive would die on 
these blue waters, long ere it could mingle in their coun- 
cil, and yet I can hold communication — I will confide 
the whole to thee — I am about to ask those faithful 
friends, if the moment for the great attempt is nigh — 
Place the lamp in the window, Fleming.” 

She obeyed, and immediately withdrew it. No soon- 
er had she done so, than the light in the cottage of the 
gardener disappeared. 

“ Now count,” said Queen Mary, “ for my heart 
beats so thick that I cannot count myself.” 

The Lady Fleming began deliberately to count one, 
two, three, and when she had arrived at ten, the light on 
the shore again showed its pale twinkle. 

“ Now Our Lady be praised !” said the Queen ; “ it 
was but tw'o nights since, that the absence of the light 
remained, while I could tell thirty. The hour of de- 
liverance approaches. May God bless those who labour 
in it with such truth to me ! — alas ! with such hazard to 
themselves — And bless you too, my children ! — Come, 
we must to the audience-chamber again. Our absence 
might excite suspicion, should they serve supper.” 

They returned to the presence-chamber, and the 
evening concluded as usual. 


THE ABBOT. 


203 


The next noon, at dinner-time, an unusual incident 
occurred, \\hile Lady Douglas of Lochleven perform- 
ed her daily duty of assistant and taster at the Queen’s 
table, she was told a mari-at-arms had arrived recom- 
mended by her son, but without any letter or other token 
than what he brought by word of mouth. 

“ Hath he given you that token ?” demanded the lady. 

“ He reserved it, as I think, for your ladyship’s ear,” 
replied Randal. 

“ He doth well,” said the lady ; “ tell him to wait in 
the hall — But no — with your permission, madam, (to the 
Queen) let him attend me here.” 

“ Since you are pleased to receive your domestics in 
my presence,” said the Queen, “ 1 cannot choose ” 

“ My infirmities must plead my excuse, madam,” re- 
plied the lady ; “ the life I must lead here ill suits with 
the years which have passed over my head, and compels 
me to wave ceremonial.” 

“ O, rny good lady,” replied the Queen, “ I would 
there were nought in this your castle more strongly com- 
pulsive than the cobweb chains of ceremony ; but bolts 
and bars are harder matters to contend with.” 

“ As she spoke, the person announced by Randal en- 
tered the room, and Roland Grasrne at once recognized 
in him the Abbot Ambrosius. 

“ What is your name, good fellow said the lady. 

“ Edward Glendinning,” answered the Abbot, with a 
suitable reverence. 

“ Art thou of the blood of the Knight of Avenel 
said the Lady of Lochleven. 

“ Ay, madam, and that nearly,” replied the pretend- 
ed soldier. 

“ It is likely enough,” said the lady, “ for the knight 
is the son of his own good works, and has risen from 
obscure lineage to his present high rank in the estate — 
But he is of sure truth and approved worth, and his 
kinsman is welcome to us. You hold, unquestionably 
the true faith 


.204 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Do not doubt of it, madam,” said the disguised 
churchman. 

“ Hast thou a token to me from Sir William Doug- 
las f” said the lady. 

“ 1 have, madam,” replied he ; “ but it must be said 
in private.” 

“Thou art right,” said the lady, moving towards the 
recess of a window ; “ say in what does it consist ?” 

“ In the words of an old bard,” replied the Abbot. 

“ Repeat them,” answered the lady ; and he uttered, 
in a low tone, the lines from an old poem called the 
Howlet, — 

“ O, Douglas ! Douglas ! 

Tender and true.’' 

13 

“ Trusty Sir John Holland !” said the Lady Douglas, 
apostrophizing the poet, “ a kinder heart never inspired 
a rhyme, and the Douglas’s honour was ever on thy harp- 
string ! We receive you among our followers, Glendin- 
ning — But, Randal, see that he keep the outer ward only, 
till we shall hear more touching him from our son. — 
Thou fearest not the night-air, Glendinning 

“ In the cause of the lady before whom I stand, I fear 
nothing, madam,” answered the disguised Abbot. 

“ Our garrison, then, is stronger by one trust-worthy 
soldier,” said the matron — “ Go to the buttery, and let 
them make much of thee.” 

When the Lady Lochleven had retired, the Queen 
said to Roland Graeme, who was now almost constantly 
in her company, “ 1 spy comfort in that stranger’s coun- 
tenance ; I know not why it should be so, but I am well 
persuaded he is a friend.” 

“ Your Grace’s penetration does not deceive you,” 
answered the page ; and he informed her that the Abbot 
of Saint Mary’s himself played the part of the newly 
arrived soldier. 

The Queen crossed herself and looked upward : 
“ Unworthy sinner that I am,” she said, “ that for my 
sake a man so holy, and so high in spiritual office, should 


THE ABBOT. 


205 


wear the garb of a base svvorder, and run the risk of 
dying the death of a traitor !” 

“ Heaven will protect its own servant, madam,” said 
Catherine Seyton j “ his aid would bring a blessing on 
our undertaking, were it not already blest for its own 
sake.” 

“ What I admire in my spiritual father,” said Roland, 
“ was the steady front with which he looked on me, 
without giving the least sign of former acquaintance. I 
did not think the like was possible, since I have ceased to 
believe that Henry was the same person with Catherine.” 

“ But marked you not how astuceously the good fath- 
er,” said the Queen, eluded the questions of the 
woman Lochleven, telling her the very truth, which yet 
she received not as such f ” 

Roland thought in his heart, that when the truth was 
spoken for the purpose of deceiving, it was little better 
than a lie in disguise. But it was no time to agitate such 
questions of conscience. 

“ And now for the signal from the shore!” exclaimed 
Catherine ; “ my bosom tells me we shall see this night 
too lights instead of one gleam from that garden of Eden. 
And then, Roland, do you play your part manfully, and 
we will dance on the greensward like midnight fairies.” 

Catherine’s conjecture misgave not, nor deceived her. 
In the evening two beams twinkled from the cottage, in- 
stead of one ; and the page heard, with beating heart, 
that the new retainer was ordered to stand sentinel on 
the outside of the castle. When he intimated this news 
to the Queen, she held her hand out to him — he knelt, 
and when he raised it to his lips in all dutiful homage, he 
found it was damp and cold as marble. “ For God’s 
sake, madam, droop not now — sink not now.” 

“ Call upon Our Lady, my Liege,” said the Lady 
Fleming — “ call upon your tutelar saint.” 

“ Call the spirits of the hundred kings you are de- 
scended from,” exclaimed the page ; “ in this hour of 
18 VOL. II. 


206 


THE ABBOT. 


need, the resolution of a monarch were worth the aid of 
a hundred saints.” 

“ O ! Roland Graeme,” said Mary, in a tone of deep 
despondency, “ be true to me — many have been false to 
me. Alas! 1 have not always been true to myself! My 
mind misgives me that I shall die in bondage, and that 
this bold attempt will cost all our lives. It was foretold 
me by a soothsayer in France, that 1 should die in prison, 
and by a violent death, and here comes the hour — O, 
would to God it found me prepared !” 

“Madam !” said Catherine Seyton, “remember you 
are a Queen. Better we all died in bravely attempting 
to gain our freedom, than remained here to be poisoned, 
as men rid them of the noxious vermin that haunt old 
houses.” 

“ You are right, Catherine,” said the Queen ; “ and 
Mary will bear her like herself. But, alas ! your young 
and buoyant spirit can ill spell the causes which have 
■^broken mine. Forgive me, my children, and farewell 
for a while — I will prepare both mind and body for this 
awful venture.” 

They separated, till again called together by the toll- 
ing of the curfew. The Queen appeared grave, but 
firm and resolved ; the Lady Fleming, with the art of 
an experienced courtier, knew perfectly how to disguise 
her inward tremors ; Catherine’s eye was fired, as if 
with the boldness of the project, and the half smile 
which dwelt upon her beautiful mouth seemed to contemn 
all the risk and all the consequences of discovery ; Ro- 
land, who felt how much success depended on his own 
address and boldness, summoned together his whole 
presence of mind, and, if he found his spirits flag for a 
moment, cast his eye upon Catherine, whom he thought 
he had never seen look so beautiful. — I may be foiled, 
he thought, but with this reward in prospect, they must 
bring the devil to aid them ere they cross me. Thus 
resolved, he stood, like a greyhound in the slips, with 
hand, heart, and eye intent upon making and seizing op- 
portunity for the execution of their project. 


THE ABBOT. 


207 


The keys had, with the wonted ceremonial, been pre- 
sented to the Lady Lochleven. She stood with her back 
to the casement, which, like that of the Queen’s apart- 
ment, commanded a view of Kinross, with the church, 
which stands at some distance from the town, and nearer 
to the lake, then connected with the town by straggling 
cottages. With her back to the casement, then, and her 
face to the table, on which the keys lay for an instant, 
while she tasted the various dishes which were placed 
there, stood the Lady of Lochleven, more provokingly 
intent than usual — so at least it seemed to her prisoners 
— upon the huge and heavy bunch of iron, the imple- 
ments of their restraint. Just when, having finished her 
ceremony as taster of the Queen’s table, she was about 
to take up the keys, the page, who stood beside her, and 
had handed her the dishes in succession, looked side- 
ways to the church-yard, and exclaimed he saw corpse- 
candles in the vault. The Lady of Lochleven was 
not without a touch, though a slight one, of the super- 
stitions of the time ; the fate of her sons made her alive 
to omens, and a corpse-light, as it was called, in the 
family burial-place, boded death. She turned her head 
towards the casement — saw a distant glimmering — forgot 
her charge for one second, and in that second were lost 
the whole fruits of her former vigilance. The page held 
the forged keys under his cloak, and with great dexter- 
ity exchanged them for the real ones. His utmost ad- 
dress could not prevent a slight clash as he took up the 
latter bunch. “ Who touches the keys said the lady ; 
and while the page answered that the sleeve of his cloak 
had stirred them, she looked round, possessed herself of 
the bunch which now occupied the place of the genuine 
keys, and again turned to gaze at the supposed corpse- 
candles.” 

I hold these gleams,” she said, after a moment’s 
consideration, “ to come not from the church-yard, hut 
from the hut of the old gardener Blinkhoolie. 1 wonder 
what thrift that churl drives, that of late he hath ever hai 
light in his house till the night grew deep. I thought 


208 


THE ABBOT. 


him an industrious, peaceful man — if he turns resetter 
of idle companions and night-walkers, the place must be 
rid of him.” 

“ He may work his baskets perchance,” said the page, 
desirous to stop the train of her suspicion. 

“ Or nets, may he not ?” answered the lady. 

“ Ay, madam,” said Roland, “ for trout and salmon.” 

“ Or for fools and knaves,” replied the lady ; “ but 
this shall be looked after to-morrow. I wish your Grace 
and your company a good evening. — Randal, attend us.” 
And Randal, who waited in the antechamber, after hav- 
ing surrendered his bunch of keys, gave his escort to his 
mistress as usual, while, leaving the Queen’s apartments, 
she retired to her own. 

“ To-morrow said the page, rubbing his hands 
with glee as he repeated the lady’s last words, “ fools 
look to to-morrow, and wise folk use to-night. — May I 
pray you, my gracious Liege, to retire for one half hour, 
until all the castle is composed to rest ? I must go and 
rub with oil these blessed implements of our freedom. 
Courage and constancy, and all will go well, provided 
our friends on the shore fail not to send the boat you 
spoke of.” 

“ Fear them not,” said Catherine, “ they are true as 
steel — if our dear mistress do but maintain her noble and 
royal courage. 

‘‘ Doubt not me, Catherine,” replied the Queen ; 
“ a while since I was overborne, but 1 have recalled the 
spirit of my earlier and more sprightly days, when I used 
to accompany my armed nobles, and wish to be myself 
a man, to know what life it was to be in the fields with 
sword and buckler, jack and knapsack!” 

“ O, the lark lives not a gayer life, nor sings a lighter 
and gayer song than the merry soldier,” answered Cath- 
erine. “ Your Grace shall be in the midst of them 
soon, and the look of such a liege Sovereign will make 
each of your host worth three in the hour of need; — but 
I must to my task.” 


THE ABBOT. 


209 


“ We have but brief lime,” said Queen Mary ; “ one 
of tbe two lights in the cottage is extinguished — that 
shows the boat is put off.” 

“ They will row very slow,” said the page, “ or kent 
where depth permits, to avoid noise. — To our several 
tasks — I will communicate with the good Father.” 

At the dead hour of midnight, when all was silent in 
the castle, the page put the key into the lock of the 
wicket which opened into the garden, and which was at 
the bottom of a staircase that descended from the 
Queen’s apartment. “ Now, turn smooth and softly, 
thou good bolt,” , said he, “ if ever oil softened rust !” 
and his precautions had been so effectual, that the bolt 
revolved with little or no sound of resistance. He ven- 
tured not to cross the threshold, but exchanging a word 
with the disguised Abbot, asked if the boat were ready. 

“ This half hour,” said the sentinel, “ she lies be- 
neath the wall, too close under the islet to be seen by the 
warder, but 1 fear she will hardly escape his notice in 
putting off again.” 

“ The darkness,” said the page, “ and our profound 
silence, may take her off unobserved, as she came in. 
Hildebrand has the watch on the tower — a heavy-head- 
ed knave, who holds a can of ale to be the best head- 
piece upon a night-watch. He sleeps for a wager.” 

“ Then bring the Queen,” said the Abbot, “ and I will 
call Henry Seyton to assist them to the boat.” 

On tiptoe, with noiseless step and suppressed breath, 
trembling at every rustle of their own apparel, one after 
another the fair prisoners glided down the winding stair, 
under the guidance of Roland Graeme, and were receiv- 
ed at the wicket-gate by Henry Seyton and the church- 
man. The former seemed instantly to take upon himself 
the whole direction of the enterprize. “ My Lord Ab- 
bot,” he said, “ give my sister your arm — I will conduct 
the Queen — and that youth will have the honour to guide 
Lady Fleming.” 

18 * VOL. It. 


210 


THE AEEOT. 


This was no time to dis[)ute the arrangement, although 
it was not that which Roland Grasme would have chosen. 
Catherine Seyton, who well knew the garden path, trip- 
ped on before like a sylph, rather leading the Abbot than 
receiving assistance — the Queen, her native spirit pre- 
vailing over female fear, and a thousand painful reflec- 
tions, moved steadily forward, by the assistance of Henry 
Seyton — while the Lady Fleming encumbered with her 
fears and her helplessness Roland Gra3me, who followed 
in the rear, and who bore under the other arm a packet 
of necessaries belonging to the Queen. The door of the 
garden, which communicated wdth the shore of the islet, 
yielded to one of the keys of which Roland had posses- 
sed himself, although not until he had tried several, — a 
moment of anxious terror and expectation. The ladies 
were then partly led, partly carried, to the side of the 
lake, where a boat with six routers attended them, the 
men couched along the bottom to secure them from ob- 
servation. Henry Seyton placed the Queen in the stern ; 
the Abbot offered to assist Catherine, but she was seated 
by the Queen’s side before he could utter his proffer of 
help ; and Roland Graeme was just lifting Lady Fleming 
over tlie boat-side, when a thought suddenly occurred to 
him, and exclaiming, “ Forgotten, forgotten ! waitforme 
but one half minute,” he replaced on the shore the help- 
less lady of the bed-chamber, threw the Queen’s packet 
into the boat, and sped back through the garden with the 
noiseless speed of a bird on the wing. 

“ By Heaven he is false at last !” said Seyton ; “ I 
ever feared it !” 

“ He is as true,” said Catherine, “ as Heaven itself, 
and that I will maintain.” 

“ Be silent, minion,” said her brother, “ for shame, if 
not for fear — Fellows, put off, and row for your lives!” 

“ Help me, help me on board !” said the deserted La- 
dy Fleming, and that louder than prudence warranted. 

“ Put off — put off!” cried Henry Seyton ; “ leave all 
behind, so the Queen is safe. ” 


the abbot. 


211 


“ Will you permit this, madam said Catherine, irn- 
ploringly ; “ you leave your deliverer to death.” 

“ I will not,’ said the Queen. — “ Seyton, 1 command 
you to stay at every risk.” 

Pardon me, madam, if I disobey,” said the intracta- 
ble young man ; and with one hand lifting in Lady Flem- 
ing, he began himself to push ofF the boat. 

She was two fathoms length from the shore, and the 
rowers were getting her head round, when Roland Grteme, 
arriving, bounded from the beach, and attained the boat, 
overturning Seyton, on whom he lighted. The youth 
swore a deep but suppressed oath, and stopping Graeme 
as he stepped towards the stern, said, “ Your place is not 
with high-born dames — keep at the head and trim the 
vessel— Now give way— give way— Row, for God and 
the Queen !” 

The rowers obeyed, and began to pull vigorously. 

“ Why did ye not muffle the oars .f”’ said Roland 
Graeme ; “ the dash must awaken the sentinel — Row, 
lads, and get out of reach of shot ; for had not old Hil- 
debrand, the warder, supped upon poppy-porridge, this 
whispering must have waked him.” 

“ It was all thine own delay,” said Seyton ; “ thou 
shalt reckon with m6 hereafter for that and other matters.” 

But Roland’s apprehension was verified too instantly 
to permit him to reply. The sentinel, whose slumbering 
had withstood the whispering, was alarmed by the dash 
of the oars. His challenge was instantly heard. “ A boat 
— a boat ! — bring to, or I shoot !” And, as they continu- 
ed to ply their oars, he called aloud, “ Treason ! trea- 
son !” rung the bell of the castle, and discharged his 
harquebuss at the boat. The ladies crowded on each 
other like startled wild-fowl, at the flash and report of the 
piece, while the men urged the rowers to the utmost 
speed. They heard more than one ball whiz along the 
surface of the lake, at no great distance from their little 
bark ; and from the lights which glanced like meteors 
from window to window, it was evident the whole castle 
was alarmed, and their escape discovered 


212 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Pull !” again exclaimed Seyton ; ‘‘ stretch to your 
oars, or I will spur you to the task with my dagger — they 
will launch a boat immediately.” 

“ That is cared for,” said Roland ; “ 1 locked gate 
and wicket on them when 1 went back, and no boat will 
stir from the island this night, if doors of good oak and 
bolts of iron can keep men within stone-wall. — And now I 
resign rny office of porter of Lochleven, and give the 
keys to the Kelpie’s keeping.” 

As the heavy keys plunged in the lake, the Abbot, who 
till then had been repeating his prayers, exclaimed, 
“ Now, bless thee, my son ! for thy ready prudence puts 
shame on us all.”^^ 

“ I knew,” said Mary, drawing her breath more freely, 
as they were now out of reach of the inusquetry — “ I 
knew my squire’s truth, promptitude, and sagacity. — 1 
must have him dear friends with my no less true knights, 
Douglas and Seyton — but where, then, is Douglas ?” 

“ .Here, madam,” answered the deep and melancholy 
voice of the boatman who sat next her, and who acted 
as steersman. 

“ Alas ! was it you who stretched your body before 
me,” said the Queen, “ when the balls were raining 
around us ?” 

“ Believe you,” said he in a low tone, “ that Douglas 
would have resigned to any one the chance of protecting 
his Queen’s life with his own f” 

The dialogue was here interrupted by a shot or two, 
from one of those small pieces of artillery, called falcon* 
ets, then used in defending castles. The shot was too 
vague to have any effect, but the broader flash, the»deeper 
sound, the louder return, which was made by the mid- 
night echoes of Bennarty, terrified and imposed silence 
on the liberated prisoners. The boat was along-side of 
a rude quay or landing-place, running out from a garden 
of considerable extent, ere any of them again attempted 
to speak. They landed, and while the Abbot returned 
thanks aloud to Heaven, which had thus far favoured 
their enterprize, Douglas enjoyed the best reward of his 


THE ABBOT. 


213 


desperate undertaking, in conducting the Queen to the 
house of the gardener. Yet, not unmindful of Roland 
Grasme even in that moment of terror and exhaustion, 
Mary expressly commanded Seyton to give his assistance 
to Fleming, while Catherine voluntarily, and without bid- 
ding, took the arm of the page. Seyton presently re- 
signed Lady Fleming to the care of the Abbot, alleging, 
he must look after their horses ; and his attendants, dis- 
encumbering themselves of their boat-cloaks, hastened 
to assist him. 

While Mary spent in the gardener’s cottage the few 
minutes which were necessary to prepare the steeds for 
their departure, she perceived, in a corner, the old man 
to whom the garden belonged, and called him to ap- 
proach. He came as it were with reluctance. 

“ How, brother,” said the Abbot, “ so slow to wel- 
come thy royal Queen and mistress, to liberty and to her 
kingdom !” 

The old man, thus admonished, came forward, and in 
good terms of speech, gave her Grace joy of her deliv- 
erance. The Queen returned him thanks in th^ rajost 
gracious manner, and added, “ It will remain to us to 
offer some immediate reward for your fidelity, for we wot 
well your house has been long the refuge in which our 
trusty servants have met to concert measures for our free- 
dom.” So saying, she offered gold, and added, “ We 
will consider your services more fully hereafter.” 

“ Kneel, brother,” said the Abbot, “ kneel instantly, 
and thank her Grace’s kindness.” 

“ Good brother, that wert once a few steps under me, and 
art still very many years younger,” replied the gardener 
pettishly, “ let me do mine acknowledgments in my own 
way. Queens have knelt to me ere now, and in truth 
rny knees are too old and stiff to bend even to this lovely- 
faced lady. May it please your Grace, if your Grace’s 
servants have occupied my house, so that I could not call 
it mine own — if they have trodden down rny flowers in 
the zeal of their midnight comings and goings, and de- 
stroyed the hope of the fruit season, by bringing their 


214 


THE ABBOT. 


war-horses into my garden, I do but crave of your Grace 
in requital, that you will choose your residence as far 
from me as possible. I am an old man, who would wil- 
lingly creep to my grave as easily as I can, in peace, 
good-will, and quiet labour.” 

“ I promise you fairly, good man,” said the Queen, 
“ I will not make yonder castle my residence again, if I 
can help it. But let me press on you this money — it will 
make some amends for the havoc we have made in your 
little garden and orchard.” 

“ 1 thank your Grace, but it will make me not the 
least amends,” said the old man. “ The ruined labours 
of a whole year are not so easily replaced to him who has 
perchance but that one year to live ; and besides, they 
tell me I must leave this place and become a wanderer 
in mine old age — I that have nothing on earth saving these 
fruit-trees, and a few old parchments and family secrets 
not worth knowing. As for gold, if I had loved it, 1 
might have remained Lord Abbot of Saint Mary’s — and 
yet, 1 wot not — for, if Abbot Boniface be but the poor 
peasant Blinkhoolie, his successor the Abbot Ambrosius 
is still transmuted for the worse into the guise of a sword- 
and-buckler-man.” 

“ Ha ! Is this indeed the Abbot Boniface of whom I 
have heard ?” said the Queen. “ It is indeed I who should 
have bent the knee for your blessing, good Father !” 

“ Bend no knee to me. Lady ! The blessing of an old 
man who is no longer an Abbot, go with you over dale 
and down-^I hear the trampling of your horses.” 

“ Farewell, Father,” said the Queen. “ When we 
are once more seated at Holyrood, we will neither forget 
thee nor thine injured garden.” 

“ Forget us both,” said the Ex- Abbot Boniface, “ and 
may God be with you !” 

As they hurried out of the house, they heard the old 
man talking and muttering to himself, as he hastily drew 
bolt and bar behind them. 

“ The revenge of the Douglasses will reach th^, poor 


THE ABBOT. 


215 


old man,” said the Queen. God help me, 1 ruin every- 
one whom 1 approach!” 

“ His safety is cared for,” said Seyton ; he must 
not remain here, but will be privately conducted to a place 
of greater security. But I would your Grace were in 
the saddle. — To horse ! to horse I” 

The party of Seyton and of Douglas were increased 
to about ten by those attendants who had remained with 
the horses. The Queen and her ladies, with all the rest 
who came from the boat were instantly mounted, and 
holding aloof from the village, which was already alarmed 
by the firing from the castle, with Douglas acting as their 
guide, they soon reached the open ground, and began to 
ride as fast as was consistent with keeping together in 
good order. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

He mounted himself on a coal-black steed, 

And her on a freckled grey, 

With a bugelet horn hung down from his side, 

And roundly they rode away. 

Old Ballad. 

The influence of the free air, the rushing of the horses 
over high and low, the ringing of the bridles, the excita- 
tion at once arising from a sense of freedom and of rapid 
motion, gradually dispelled the confused and dejected 
sort of stupefaction by which Queen Mary was at first 
overwhelmed. She could not at last conceal the change 
of her feelings to the person who rode at her rein, and 
who she doubted not was the Father Ambrosius ; for 
Seyton, with all the heady impetuosity of a youth, proud, 
and justly so, of his first successful adventure, assumed 
all the bustle and importance of commander of the little 
party, which escorted, in the language of the time, the 
Fortune of Scotland. He now led the van, now check- 


216 


THE ABBOT. 


ed his bounding steed till the rear had come up, exhorted 
the leaders to keep a steady, though rapid pace, and com- 
manded those who were hindmost of tlie party to use 
their spurs, and allow no interval to take place in their 
line of march ; and anon he was beside the Queen, or 
her ladies, inquiring how they brooked the hasty journey, 
and whether they had any commands for him. But while 
Seyton thus busied himself in the general cause with some 
advantage to the regular order of the march, and a good 
deal of personal ostentation, the horseman who rode be- 
side the Queen gave her his full and undivided attention, 
as if he had been waiting upon some superior being. 
When the road was rugged and dangerous, he abandoned 
almost entirely the care of his own horse, and kept his 
hand constantly upon the Queen’s bridle ; if a river or 
larger brook traversed their course, his left arm retained 
her in the saddle, while his right held her palfrey’s rein. 

“ I had not thought, reverend Father,” said the Queen, 
when they reached the other bank, “ that the convent 
bred such good horsemen.” — The person she addressed 
sighed, but made no other answer. — “ 1 know not how it 
is,” said Queen Mary, “but either the sense of freedom, or 
the pleasure of my favourite exercise, from which 1 have 
been so long debarred, or both combined, seem to have 
given wings to me — no fish ever shot through the water, 
no bird through the air, with the hurried feeling of liberty 
and rapture with which I sweep through this night-wind, 
and over these wolds. Nay, such is the magic of feeling 
myself once more in the saddle, that I could almost swear 
I am at this moment mounted on my own favourite Ro- 
sahelle, who was never matched in Scotland for swiftness, 
for ease of motion, and for sureness of foot.” 

“ And if the horse which bears so dear a burden 
could speak,” answered the deep voice of the melan- 
choly George of Douglas, “ would she not reply, who 
but Rosabelle ought at such an emergence as this to serve 
her beloved mistress, or who but Douglas ought to hold 
her bridle-rein !” 

Queen Mary started ; she foresaw at once all the evils 
like to arise to herself and him from the deep enthusias- 


THE ABBOT. 


217 


tic passion of this youth ; but her feelings as a woman, 
grateful at once and compassionate, prevented her as- 
suming the dignity of a Queen, and she endeavoured 
to continue the conversation in an indifferent tone. 

“ Methought,” she said, “ I heard that, at the division 
of my spoils, Rosabelle had become the property of Lord 
Morton’s paramour and ladye-love, Alice.” 

“ The noble palfrey had indeed been destined to so 
base a lot,” answered Douglas ; “ she was kept under 
four keys, and under the charge of a numerous crew of 
grooms and domestics — but Queen Mary needed Rosa- 
belle, and Rosabelle is here.” 

“ And was it well, Douglas,” said Queen Mary, “ when 
such fearful risks of various kinds must needs be encoun- 
tered, that you should augment their perils to yourself, 
for a subject of so little moment as a palfrey 

“ Do you call that of little moment,” answered Douglas, 
“ which has afforded you a moment’s pleasure ? — Did you 
not start with joy when 1 first said you were mounted on 
Rosabelle } — And to purchase you that pleasure, though 
it were to last no longer than the flash of lightning doth, 
would not Douglas have risked his life a thousand times ?” 

“ O, peace, Douglas, peace,” said the Queen, “ this 
is unfitting language ; and, besides, I would speak,” 
said she, recollecting herself, “ with the Abbot of Saint 
Mary’s — Nay, Douglas, I will not let you quit my rein in 
displeasure,” 

“ Displeasure, lady !” answered Douglas, “ alas ! sor- 
row is all that I can feel for your well-warranted contempt 
— I should be as soon displeased with Heaven for refus- 
ing the wildest wish which mortal can form.” 

“ Abide by my rein, however,” said Mary, “ there is 
room for my Lord Abbot on the other side ; and, besides, 
I doubt if his assistance would be so useful to Rosabelle 
and me as yours has been, should the road again re 
quire it.” 

The Abbot came up on the other side, and she imme- 
diately opened a conversation with him on the topic of 
19 VOL. II. 


218 


THE ABBOT. 


the state of parties, and the plan fittest for her to pursue 
in consequence of her deliverance. In this conversation 
Douglas took little share, and never but when directly 
applied to by the Queen, while, as before, his attention 
seemed entirely engrossed hy the care of Mary’s 
personal safety. She learned-, however, she had a new 
obligation to him, since by his contrivance, the Abbot, 
whom he had furnished with the family pass-word, was 
introduced into the castle as one of the garrison. 

Long before day-break they ended their hasty and per- 
ilous journey before the gates of Niddrie, a castle 
in West Lothian, belonging to Lord Seyton. When the 
Queen was about to alight, Henry Seyton, preventing 
Douglas, received her in his arms, and, kneeling down, 
prayed her Majesty to enter the house of his father, her 
faithful servant. 

“Your Grace,” he added, “may repose yourself here 
in perfect safely — it is already garrisoned with good men 
for your protection ; and 1 have sent a post to my father, 
whose instant arrival, at the head of five hundred men, 
may be looked for. Do not dismay yourself, therefore, 
should your sleep be broken by the trampling of horse ; 
but only think that here are some scores more of the 
saucy Seytons come to attend you.” 

“ And by better friends than the saucy Seytons, a 
Scottish Queen cannot be guarded,” replied Mary. 
“ Rosabelle went fleet as the summer breeze, and well 
nigh as easy ; but it is long since I have been a traveller, 
and I feel that repose will be welcome. — Catherine, ma 
mignonne, you must sleep in my apartment to-night, and 
bid me welcome to your noble father’s castle. — Thanks, 
thanks to all my kind deliverers — thanks, and a good 
night is all 1 can now offer ; but if I climb once more 
to the upper side of Fortune’s wheel, I will not have her 
bandage. Mary Stuart will keep her eyes open, and dis- 
tinguish her friends. — Seyton, I need scarcely recommend 
the venerable Abbot, the Douglas, and my page, to vour 
honourable care and hospitality.” 


THE ABBOT. 


219 


Henry Seyton bowed, and Catherine and Lady Flem 
ing attended the Queen to her apartment ; where, ac- 
knowledging to them that she should have found it difficuh 
in that moment to keep her promise of holding her eyes 
open, she resigned herself to repose, and awakened not 
till the morning was advanced. 

Mary’s first feeling when she awoke, was the doubt of 
her freedom ; and the impulse prompted her to start from 
bed, and hastily throwing her mantle over her shouldefs, 
to look out at the casement of her apartment. O sight 
of joy ! instead of the crystal sheet of Lochleven, unal- 
tered save by the influence of the wind, a landscape of 
wood and moorland lay before her, and the park around 
the castle was occupied by the troops of her most faithful 
and most favourite nobles. 

“ Rise, rise, Catherine,” cried the enraptured Prin- 
cess ; “ arise and come hither ! — here are swords and 
spears in true hands, and glittering armour on loyal 
breasts. Here are banners, my girl, floating in the wind, 
as lightly as summer clouds — Great God ! what pleasure 
to my weary eyes to trace their devices — thine own brave 
father’s — the princely Hamilton’s — the faithful Fleming’s 
— See — see — they have caught a glimpse of me, and 
throng towards the window !” 

She flung the casement open, and with her bare head, 
from which the tresses flew back loose and dishevelled, 
her fair arm slenderly veiled by her mantle, returned by 
motion and sign, the exulting shouts of the warriors, 
which echoed for many a furlong around. When the first 
burst of ecstatic joy was over, she recollected how lightly 
she was dressed, and, putting her hands to her face, which 
was covered with blushes at the recollection, withdrew 
abruptly from the window. The cause of her retreat 
was easily conjectured, and increased the general enthu- 
siasm for a Princess, who had forgotten her rank in her 
haste to acknowledge the services of her subjects. The 
unadorned beauties of the lovely woman, too, moved the 
military spectators more than the highest display of her 
regal state might, and what might have seemed too free 


220 


THE ABBOT. 


in her mode of appearing before them, was more than 
atoned for by the enthusiasm of the moment, and by the 
delicacy evinced in her hasty retreat. Often as the 
shouts died away, as often were they renewed till wood 
and hill rung again ; and many a deep oath was made 
that morning on the cross of the sword, that the hand 
should not part with the weapon, till Mary Stuart was re- 
stored to her rights. But what are promises, what the 
hopes of mortals ? In ten days, these gallant and devoted 
votaries were slain, were captives, or had fled. 

Mary flung herself into the nearest seat, and still blush- 
ing, yet half smiling, exclaimed, “ Ma mignonne, what 
will they think of me ? — to show myself to them with 
my bare feet hastily thrust into the slippers — only this 
loose mantle about me — my hair loose on my shoul- 
ders — my arms and neck so bare — O, the best they can 
suppose, is, that her abode in yonder dungeon has turned 
their Queen’s brain ! But my rebel subjects saw me ex- 
posed when I was in the depth of affliction, why should 
I hold colder ceremony with these faithful and loyal men ? 
— Call Fleming, however — 1 trust she has not forgotten 
the little mail with my apparel — We must be as brave as 
we can, mignonne, 

“ Nay, madam, our good Lady Fleming was in no 
case to remember anything.” 

“ You jest, Catherine,” said the Queen, somewhat of- 
fended ; “ it is not in her nature, surely, to forget her 
duty so far as to leave us without a change of apparel?” 

“ Roland Gramme, madam, took care of that,” answer- 
ed Catherine ; “ for he threw the mail, with your high- 
ness’s clothes and jewels, into the boat, ere he ran back 
to lock the gate — 1 never saw so awkward a page as that 
youth — the packet well nigh fell on my head.” 

“ He shall make thy heart amends, my girl,” said 
Queen Mary, laughing, “ for that, and all other offences 
given. But call Fleming, and let us put ourselves into 
apparel to meet our faithful lords.” 

Such had been the preparations, and such was the skill 
of Lady Fleming, that the Queen appeared before her 


THE ABBOT. 


221 


assembled nobles in such attire as became, though it could 
not enhance, her natural dignity. With the most winning 
courtesy, she expressed to each individual her grateful 
thanks, and dignified not only ev'^ery noble, but many of 
the lesser barons by her particular attention. 

“ And whither now, my lords f” she said ; “ what 
way do your counsels determine for us f” 

“ To Draphane Castle,” replied Lord Arbroath, “ if 
your Majesty is so pleased ; and thence to Dunbarton, 
to place your Grace’s person in safety, after which we 
long to prove if these traitors will abide us in the field.” 

“ And when do we journey 

“We propose,” said Lord Seyton, “ if your Grace’s 
fatigue will permit, to take horse after the morning’s 
meal.” 

“ Your pleasure, my lords, is mine,” replied the 
Queen ; “ we will rule our journey by your wisdom now, 
and hope hereafter to have the advantage of governing 
by it our kingdom. — You will permit my ladies and me, 
my good lords, to break our fasts along with you — We 
must be half soldiers ourselves, and set state apart.” 

Low bowed many a helmeted head at this gracious 
proffer, when the Queen, glancing her eyes through the 
assembled leaders, missed both Douglas and Roland 
Graeme, and inquired for them in a whisper to Catherine 
Seyton. 

“ They are in yonder oratory, madam, sad enough,” 
replied Catherine ; and the Queen observed that her fa- 
vourite’s eyes were red with weeping. 

“ This must not be,” said the Queen. “ Keep the 
company amused — I will seek them, and introduce them 
myself.” 

She went into the oratory, where the first she met was 
George Douglas, standing, or rather reclining in the re- 
cess of a window, his back rested against the wall, and 
his arms folded on his breast. At the sight of the Queen 
he started, and his countenance showed, for an instant, 
19 * VOL. II. 


222 


THE ABBOT. 


an expression of intense delight, which was instantly ex 
changed for his usual deep melancholy* 

“ What means this ?” she said ; “ Douglas, why does 
the first deviser and bold executor of the happy scheme 
for our freedom, shun the company of his fellow nobles, 
and of the Sovereign whom he has obliged f” 

“ Madam,” replied Douglas, “ those whom you grace 
with your presence bring followers to aid your cause, 
wealth to support your state, can offer you halls in which 
to feast, and impregnable castles for your defence. I 
am a houseless and landless man — disinheritedbymymo- 
ther, and laid under her malediction — disowned by my 
name and kindred, who bring nothing to your standard 
but a single sw'ord, and the poor life of its owner !” 

“ Do you mean to upbraid me, Douglas,” replied the 
Queen, “ by showing what you have lost for my sake f” 

“ God forbid, madam,” interrupted the young man, 
eagerly ; “ were it to do again, and had I ten times as 
much rank and wealth, and twenty times as many friends 
to lose, my losses would be overpaid by the first step 
you made, as a free Princess, upon the soil of your native 
kingdom.” 

“ And what then ails you, that you will not rejoice with 
those who rejoice upon the same joyful occasion f” said 
the Queen. 

“ Madam,” replied the youth, “ though exheridated 
and disowned, 1 am yet a Douglas : with most of yonder 
nobles my family have been in feud for ages — a cold re- 
ception amongst them were an insult, and a kind one 
yet more humiliating.” 

“ For shame, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “ shake 
off this unmanly gloom ! — 1 can make thee match for the 
best of them in title and fortune, and, believe me, 1 will 
— Go then amongst them, 1 command you.” 

“ That word,” said Douglas, “ is enough — I go. This 
only let me say, that not for wealth or title would 1 have 
done that which I have done — Mary Stuart will not, and 
tne Queen canppf nie.” 


THE ABBOT. 


223 


So saying, he left the oratory, mingled with the nohles, 
and placed himself at the bottom of the table. The 
Queen looked after him, and put her kerchief to her 
eyes. 

“ Now, Our Lady pity me,” she said, “ for no soon- 
er are my prison cares ended, than those which beset 
me as a woman and a Queen again thicken around me. 
— Happy Elizabeth ! to whom political interest is every 
thing, and whose heart never betrays thy head. — And 
now must I seek this other boy, if I would prevent dag- 
gers-drawing betwixt him and the young Seyton.” 

Roland Graeme was in the same oratory, but at such a 
distance from Douglas, that he could not overhear what 
passed betwixt the Queen and him. He also was moody 
and thoughtful, but cleared his brow at the Queen’s ques- 
tion, “ How now, Roland? you are negligent in your at- 
tendance this morning. Are you so much overcome 
with your night’s ride 

“ Not so, gracious madam,” answered Graeme ; “ but 
I am told the Page of Lochleven is not the Page of Nid- 
drie-Castle; and so Master Henry Seyton hath in a 
manner been pleased to supersede my attendance.” 

“ Now, Heaven forgive me,” said the Queen, “ how 
soon these cock-chickens begin to spar ! — with children 
and boys, at least, I may be a Queen — I will have you 
friends. — Some one send me Henry Seyton hither.” 
As she spoke the last words aloud, the youth whom she. 
had named entered the apartment. “ Come hither,” 
she said, “ Henry Seyton — I will have you give your 
hand to this youth, who so well aided in the plan of my 
escape.” 

“ Willingly, madam,” answered Seyton, “ so that the 
youth will grant me, as a boon, that he touch not the 
hand of another Seyton whom he knows of. My hand 
has passed current for her’s with him before now — and 
to win my friendship, he must give up thoughts of my 
sister’s love.” 

“ Henry Seyton,” said the Queen, “ does it become 
ou to add any condition to my command 


224 


'THE ABBOT. 


“ Madanri,’’ said Henry, “ 1 am the servant of your 
Grace’s throne, son to the most loyal man in Scotland. 
Our goods, our castles, our blood, are your’s : Our hon- 
our is in our own keeping. 1 could say more, but” 

“ Nay, speak on, rude boy,” said the Queen ; “ what 
avails it that 1 atn released from Lochleven, if 1 am 
thus enthralled under the yoke of my pretended deliver- 
ers, and prevented from doing justice to one who has 
deserved as well of me as yourself 

“ Be not in this distemperature for me, sovereign 
lady,” said Roland ; “ this young gentleman, being the 
faithful servant of your Grace, and the brother of Cath- 
erine Seyton, bears that about him which will charm 
down my passion at the hottest.” 

“ I warn thee once more,” said Henry Seyton haugh- 
tily, “ that you make no speech which may infer that 
the daughter of Lord Seyton can be aught to thee be- 
yond what she is to every churl’s blood in Scotland.” 

The Queen was again about to interfere, for Roland’s 
complexion rose, and it became somewhat questionable 
how long his love for Catherine would suppress the natu- 
ral fire of his temper. But the interposition of another 
person, hitherto unseen, prevented Mary’s interference. 
There was in the oratory a separate shrine, inclosed with 
a high screen of pierced oak, within which was placed 
an image of Saint Bennet of peculiar sanctity. From 
this recess, in which she had been probably engaged in 
her devotions, issued suddenly Magdalen Graeme, and 
addressed Henry Seyton, in reply to his last offensive 
expressions — “And of what clay, then, are they moulded, 
these Seytons, that the blood of the Graemes may not as- 
pire to mingle with theirs ? Know, proud boy, that when 
1 call this youth my daughter’s child, 1 affirm his descent 
from Malice Earl of Stralhern, called Malice with the 
bright brand ; and I trow the blood of your house springs 
from no higher source.” 

“ Good mother,” said Seyton, “ rnethinks your sanc- 
tity should make you superior to these worldly vanities ; 
and indeed it seems to have rendered you somewhat 


THE ABBOT. 


225 


oblivious touching them, since, to be of gentle descent 
the father’s name and lineage must be as well qualified 
as the mother’s.” 

“ And if I say he comes of the blood of Avenel by the 
father’s side,” replied Magdalen Graeme, “ name I not 
blood as richly coloured as thine own 

“ Of Avenel said the Queen ; “ is my page de- 
scended of Avenel 

“ Ay, gracious Princess, and the last male heir of that 
ancient house — Julian Avenel was his father, who fell in 
battle against the Southron.” 

“ I have heard the tale of sorrow,” said the Queen ; 
“ it was thy daughter, then, who followed that unfortu- 
nate Baron to the field, and died on his body F Alas ! 
how many ways does woman’s affection find to work out 
her own misery ! The tale has oft been told and sung 
in hall and bower — And thou, Roland, art that child of 
misfortune, who was left among the dead and dying? — 
Henry Seyton, he is thine equal in blood and birth.” 

“ Scarcely so,” said Henry Seyton, “ even were he 
legitimate ; but if the tale be told and sung aright, Julian 
Avenel was a false Knight, and his leman a frail and 
credulous maiden.” 

“ Now, by Heaven, thou liest !” said Roland Graeme, 
and laid his hand on his sword. The entrance of Lord 
Seyton, however, prevented violence. 

“ Save me, my lord,” said the Queen, “ arid separate 
these wild and untamed spirits.” 

“ How, Henry !” said the Baron, “ are my castle, and 
the Queen’s presence, no checks on thine insolence and 
impetuosity.^ — And with whom art thou brawling.^ — 
unless my eyes spell that token false, it is with the very 
youth who aided me so gallantly in the skirmish with the 
Leslies — Let me look, fair youth, at the medal which thou 
wearest in thy cap. By Saint Bennet, it is the same ! 
— Henry, 1 command thee to forbear him, as thou lovest 
my blessing’’ 

“ And as you honour my command,” said the Queen ; 
“ good service hath he done me,” 


226 


THE 4BE0T. 


“ Ay, madam,” replied young Seyton, as wlien he 
carried the billet inclosed in the sword-sheath to Loch- 
leven — marry, the good youth knew no more than a 
pack-horse what he was carrying.” 

“ But I, w’ho dedicated him to this great work,” said 
Magdalen Graeme — “ I, by whose advice and agency 
this just heir hath been unloosed horn her thraldom, — 1 
who spared not the last remaining hope of a falling house 
in this great action — I, at least, knew and counselled ; 
and what merit may be mine, let the reward, most gra- 
cious Queen, descend upon this youth. IViy mitjistry 
here is ended ; you are free — a sovereign Princess, at 
the head of a gallant arn)y, surrounded by valiant barons 
— My service could avail you no farther, but might well 
prejudice you ; your fortune now rests upon men’s hearts 
and men’s swords — may they prove as trusty as the faith 
of women !” 

“ You will not leave us, mother,” said the Queen — 
“ you whose practices in our favour were so powerful, 
who dared so many dangers, and wore so many disguis- 
es to blind our enemies and to confirm our friends — you 
will not leave us in the dawn of our reviving fortunes, 
ere we have time to know and to thank you 

“ You cannot know her,"” answered Magdalen Grasme ; 
“ who knows not herself — there are times, when, in this 
woman’s frame of mine, there is the strength of him of 
Gath — in this over-toiled brain, the wisdom of the most 
sage counsellor — and again the mist is on me, and my 
strength is weakness, my wisdom folly. I have spoken 
before princes and cardinals — ay, noble Princess, even 
before the princes of thine own house of Lorraine ; and 
I know not whence the words of persuasion came which 
flowed from my lips, and were drunk in by their ears. — 
And now, even when I most need words of persuasion, 
there is something which chokes my voice, and robs me 
of utterance.” 

“ If there be aught in my power to do thee pleasure,” 
said the Queen ; “ the barely naming it shall avail as 
well as all thine eloquence.” 


THE ABBOT. 


227 


“ Sovereign Lady,” replied the enthusiast ; “ it shames 
me that at this high moment, something of human frailty 
should cling to one, whose vows the saints have heard, 
whose labours in the rightful cause Heaven has prosper- 
ed. But it will be thus while the living spirit is shrined 
in the clay of mortality — I will yield to the folly,” she 
said, weeping as she spoke, “ and it shall be the last.” 
Then seizing Roland’s hand, she led him to the Queen’s 
feet, kneeling herself upon one knee, and causing him 
to kneel on both. “ IVlighty Princess,” she said, “ look 
on this flower — it was found by a kindly stranger on a 
bloody field of battle, and long it was ere my anxious 
eyes saw, and my arms pressed all that was left of my 
only daughter. For your sake, and for that of the holy 
faith we both profess, I could leave this plant, while it was 
yet tender, to the nurture of strangers — ay, of enemies, by 
whom, perchance, his blood w'ould have been poured forth 
as wine, had the heretic Glendinning known that he had in 
his house the heir of Julian Avenel. Since then I have 
seen him only in a few hours of doubt and dread, and 
now I part with the child of my love — for ever — for 
ever! — O, for every weary step T have made in your 
rightful cause, in this and in foreign lands, give protection 
to the child whom I must no more call mine !” 

“ I swear to you, mother,” said the Queen deeply 
affected, “ that, for your sake and his own, his happiness 
and fortune shall be our charge !” 

“ I thank you, daughter of princes,” said Magdalen, 
and pressed her lips, first to the Queen’s hand, then to 
the brow of her grandson. “ And now,” she said, dry- 
ing her tears, and rising with dignity ; “ Earth has had 

its own, and Heaven claims the rest. Lioness of Scot- 
land, go forth and conquer! and if the prayers of a de- 
voted votaress can avail thee, they will rise in many a 
land, and from many a distant shrine. I will glide like 
a ghost from land to land, from temple to temple ; and 
where the very name of my country is unknown, the 
priests shall ask who is the Queen of that distant nortn- 
ern clime, for whom the aged pilgnm was so fervent in 


22S 


THE ABBOT. 


prayer — Farewell! honour be thine, and earthly pros- 
perity, if it be the will of God — if not, may the penance 
thou shall do here, ensure thy happiness hereafter!— 
Let no one speak or follow me — my resolution is taken 
— my vow cannot be cancelled.” 

She glided from their presence as. she spoke, and her 
last look was upon her beloved grandchild. He would 
have risen and followed, but the Queen and Lord Sey- 
ton interfered. 

“ Press not on her now,” said Lord Seyton, “ if you 
would not lose her for ever. Many a lime have we seen 
the sainted mother, and often at the most needful mo- 
ment j but to press on her privacy, or to thwart her pur- 
pose, is a crime which she cannot pardon. I trust we 
shall yet see her at her need — a holy woman she is for cer- 
tain, and dedicated wholly to prayer and penance ; and 
hence the heretics hold her as one distracted, while true 
Catholics deem her a saint.” 

“ Let me then hope,” said the Queen, “ that you, 
my lord, will aid me in the execution of her last re- 
quest.” 

“ What I in the protection of my young second F — 
cheerfully — that is, in all that your Majesty can think it 
fitting to ask of me — Henry, give thy hand upon the in- 
stant to Roland Avenel, for so I presume he must now 
be called.” 

“ And shall be Lord of the Barony,” said the Queen, 
“ if God prosper our rightful arms.” 

“ It can only be to restore it to my kind protectress, 
who now holds it,” said young Avenel. “ 1 would rath- 
er be landless all my life, than she lost a rood of ground 
by me.” 

“ Nay,” said the Queen, looking to Lord Seyton, 
“ his mind matches his birth — Henry, thou hast not yet 
given thy hand.” 

“It is his,” said Henry, giving it with some appear- 
ance of courtesy, but whispering Roland at the same 
time, — “ For all this, thou hast not my sister’s.” 


THE ABBOT. 


229 


“ May it please your Grace,” said Lord Seyton, “ now 
that these passages are over,, to honour our poor meal. 
Time it were that our banners were reflected in the 
Clyde. We must to horse with as little delay as may be.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Ay, sir — our ancient crown, in these wild times, 

Oft stood upon a ceist — the gamester's ducat, 

So often staked, and lost, and then regain’d. 

Scarce knew so many hazards. 

The Spanish Father. 

It is not our object to enter into the historical part of 
the reign of the ill-fated Mary, or to recount how, dur- 
ing the week which succeeded her flight from Locbleven, 
her partizans mustered around her with their followers, 
forming a gallant army, amounting to six thousand men. 
So much light has been lately thrown on the most mi- 
nute details of the period, by Mr. Chalmers, in his valu- 
able History of Queen Mary, that the reader may be 
safely referred to it for the fullest information which 
ancient records afford concerning that interesting time. 
It is sufficient for our purpose to say, that while Mary's 
head-quarters were at Hamilton, the Regent and his ad- 
herents bad, in the King’s name, assembled a host at 
Glasgow, inferior indeed to that of the Queen in num- 
bers, but formidable from the military talents of Murray, 
Morton, the Laird of Grange, and others, who had been 
trained from their youth in foreign and domestic wars. 

In these circumstances, it was the obvious policy of 
Queen Mary to avoid a conflict, secure that, were her 
person once in safety, the number of her adherents must 
daily increase ; whereas, the forces of those opposed to 
her must, as had frequently happened in the previous 
20 VOL. II. 


230 


THE ABBOT. 


history of her reign, have diminished, r.? i -i 
become broken. And so evident was this to her coun- 
sellors, that they resolved their first step should be to 
place tiie Queen in the strong Castle of Dunbarton, 
there to await the course of events, the arrival of succours 
from France, and the levies which were made by her 
adherents in every province in Scotland. Accordingly, 
orders were given, that all men should be on horseback 
or on foot, apparelled in their armour, and ready to fol- 
low the Queen’s standard in array of battle, the avowed 
determination being to escort her to the Castle of Dun- 
barton in defiance of her enemies. The muster v.as 
made upon Hamilton-moor, and the march commence :1 
in all the pomp of feudal times. Military music soundc 'I, 
banners and pennons waved, ai mour glittered far a"C 
wide, and spears glanced and twinkled like stars in 
frosty sky. The gallant spectacle of warlike parade v 
on this occasion dignified by the presence of the Queen 
herself, who, with a fair retinue of ladies and househ< 
attendants, and a special guard of gentlemen, amon ' 
whom young Seyton and Roland were distinguisln 
gave grace at once and confidence to the army, whi 
spread its ample files before, around, and behind her. -- 
Many churchmen also joined the cavalcade, most o' 
whom did not scruple to assume arms, and declare ih 'ir 
intention of wielding them in defence of Mary and ll.o 
Catholic faith. Not so the Abbot of Saint Mary’s. Ro- 
land had not seen this prelate since the night of their es- 
cape from Lochleven, and he now beheld him, robed in 
the dress of his order, assume his station near the Queen' 
person. Roland hastened to pull off his basnet and t 
seech the Abbot’s blessing. 

“ Thou hast it, my son !” said the priest ; “ I see thee 
now under thy true name and in thy rightful garb. The 
helmet with the holly branch befits your brows well- ^ 
have long waited for the hour thou shouldst assume ii.. 

Then you knew of my descent, my good father ’ 
said Roland. 


THE ABBOT. 


231 


“ I did so, but it was under seal of confession from 
thy grandmother ; nor was I at liberty to tell the secret, 
till she herself should make it known.” 

“ Her reason for such secresy, my father said Ro- 
land Avenel. 

“ Fear, perchance, of my brother — a mistaken fear, for 
Halbert would not, to ensure himself a kingdom, have offer- 
ed wrong to an orphan ; besides that your title, in quiet 
times, even had your father done your mother that justice 
which I well hope he did, could not have competed with 
that of my brother’s wife,the child of J ulian’s elder brother.” 

“ They need fear no competition from me,” said Ave- 
nel. “ Scotland is wide enough, and there are many 
manors to win, without plundering my benefactor. But 
prove to me, my reverend father, that my father was just 
to my mother — show me that I may call myself a legiti- 
mate Avenel, and make me your bounden slave forever!” 

“ Ay,” replied the Abbot, “ I hear the Seytons hold 
thee cheap for that stain on thy shield. Something, how- 
ever, I have learnt from the late Abbot Boniface, which, 
if it prove sooth, may redeem that reproach.” 

“ Tell me that blessed news,” said Roland, “ and the 
future service of my life” 

“ Rash boy !” said the Abbot, I should but madden 
thine impatient temper, by exciting hopes that may never 
be fulfilled — and is this a time for them ? Think on what 
perilous march we are hound, and if thou hast a sin un- 
confessed, neglect not the only leisure which Heaven may 
perchance afford thee for confession and absolution.” 

“ There will be time enough for both, I trust, when we 
reach Dunbarton,” answered the page. 

“ Ay,” said the Abbot, “ thou crowest as loudly as 
the rest — but we are not yet at Dunbarton, and there is 
a lion in the path.” 

“ Mean you Murray, Morton, and the other rebels at 
Glasgow, my reverend father ^ Tush ! they dare not look 
on the royal banner.” 

“ Even so,” replied the Abbot, “ speak many of those 
who are older, and should be wiser, than thou. — I have re- 


232 


THE ABBOT. 


turned from the Southern shires, where I left many a chief 
of name arming in the Queen’s interest — 1 left the lords 
here wise and considerate men — I find them madmen on 
my return — they are willing, for mere pride and vain 
glory, to brave the enemy, and to carry the Queen, as it 
were in triumph, past the walls of Glasgow, and under 
the beards of the adverse army. — Seldom does Heaven 
smile on such mistimed confidence. We shall be en- 
countered, and that to the purpose.” 

“ And so much the better,” replied Roland, “ the field 
of battle was my cradle.” 

“ Beware it be not thy dying bed,” said the Abbot ; 
“ but what avails it whispering to young wolves the dan- 
gers of the chase You will know, perchance, ere this 
day is out, what yonder men are, whom you hold in rash 
contempt.” 

“ Why, what are they said Henry Seyton, who now 
joined them : “ have they sinews of wire, and flesh of 
iron ? — Will lead pierce and steel cut them ? — If so, 
reverend father, we have little to fear.” 

“They are evil men,” said the Abbot, “hut the trade 
of war demands no saints. — Murray and Morton are 
known to be the best generals in Scotland. No one over 
saw Lindesay’sorRuthven’s back — Kirkaldy of Grange 
was named by the Constable Montmorency the first sol- 
dier in Europe — My brother, too good a name for such 
a cause, has been far and wide known for a leader.” 

“ The better, the better!” said Seyton triumphantly, 
“ we shall have all these traitors of rank and name in a 
fair field before us. Our cause is the best, our numbers 
are the strongest, our hearts and limbs match theirs — 
Saint Bennet, and set on !” 

The Abbott made no reply, but seemed lost in reflec- 
tion; and his anxiety in some measure communicated 
itself to Roland Avenel, who ever, as their line of march 
led over a ridge or an eminence, cast an anxious look to- 
wards the towers of Glasgow, as if he expected to see 
symptoms of the enemy issuing forth. It was not that 
he feared the fight, but the issue was of such deep im 


THE ABEOT. 


233 


port to Ills country, and to himself, that the natural fire 
of his spirit burned with a less lively, though with a more 
intense glow. Love, honour, fame, fortune, all seemed 
to depend on the issue of one field, rashly hazarded per- 
haps, but now likely to become unavoidable and decisive. 

When, at length, their march came to be nearly par- 
allel with the city of Glasgow, Roland became sensible, 
that the high grounds before them were already in part 
occupied by a force, showing, like their own, the royal 
Danner of Scotland, and on the point of being supported 
by columns of infantry and squadrons of horse, which 
the city gates had poured forth, and which hastily ad- 
vanced to sustain those troops who already possessed the 
ground in front of the Queen’s forces. Horseman after 
horseman galloped in from the advanced gward, with 
tidings that Murray had taken the field with his whole 
army ; that his object was to intercept the Queen’s 
march, and his purpose unquestionable to hazard a battle. 
It was now that the tempers of men were subjected to a 
sudden and a severe trial ; and that those who had too 
presumptuously concluded that they should pass without 
combat, were something disconcerted, when, at once, 
and with little time to deliberate, they found themselves 
placed in front of a resolute enemy. — Their chiefs im- 
mediately assembled around the Queen, and held a hasty 
council of war. Mary’s quivering lip confessed the fear 
which she endeavoured to conceal under a bold and 
dignified demeanour. But her efforts were overcome 
by painful recollections of the disastrous issue of her 
last appearance in arms at Carberry-hill ; and when she 
meant to have asked them their advice for ordering the 
battle, she involuntarily inquired whether there were no 
means of escaping without an engagement ? 

“ Escaping.?” answered the Lord Seyton ; “ When 
I stand as one to ten of your Highness’s enemies, I may 
think of escape — but never while 1 stand with three to 
two !” 

20 * VOL. II. 


234 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Battle ! battle !” exclaimed the assembled lords ; 
“ we will driv^e the rebels from their vantage ground as 
the hound turns the hare on the hill side.” 

“ Methinks, my noble lords,” said the Abbot, “ it 
were as well to prevent his gaining that advantage. — Our 
road lies through yonder hamlet on the brow’, and which- 
ever party hath the luck to possess it, with its liiile gar- 
dens and inclosures, will attain a post of great defence.” 

“ The reverend father is right,” said the Queen. 
“ O, haste thee, Seyton, haste, and get thither before 
them — they are marching like the wind.” 

Seyton bowed low, and turned his horse’s head. — 
“ Your Highness honours me,” he said ; “ I will in- 
stantly press forward, and seize the pass.” 

“ Not before me, my lord, whose charge is the com- 
mand of the van-guard said the Lord of Arbroath. 

“ Before you, or any Hamilton in Scotland,” said the 
Seyton, “ having the Queen’s command — Follow^ me, 
gentlemen, my vassals, and kinsmen — Saint Bennet, and 
set on !” 

“ And follow me, said Arbroath my noble kinsmen, 
and brave men-tenants, we will see which will first reach 
the post of danger. For God and Queen Mary !” 

“ Ill-omened haste, and most unhappy strife,” said 
the Abbot, who saw them and their followers rush hasti- 
ly and emulously to ascend the height, without waiting till 
their men were placed in order. — “ And you, gentle- 
men,” he continued, addressing Roland and Seyton, who 
were each about to follow those who hastened thus disor- 
derly to the conflict, “ will you leave the Queen’s per- 
son unguarded 

“ O, leave me not, gentlemen !” said the Queen — 
“ Roland and Seyton, do not leave me — there are 
enough of arms to strike in this fell combat — withdraw 
not those to whom I trust for my safety!” 

“ We may not leave her Grace,” said Roland, looking 
at Seyton, and turning his horse. 

“ I ever looked when thou wouldst find out that,” re- 
joined the fiery youth. 


THE ABBOT* 


235 


Roland made no answer, but bit his lip till the blood 
came, and spurring his horse up to the side of Catherine 
Seyton’s pallrey, he whispered in a low voice, I never 
thought to have done aught to deserve you, but this day 
I have heard myself upbraided with cowardice, and iny 
sword remained still sheathed, and all for the love of 
you.” 

“ There is madness among us all,” said the damsel ; 
“ my father, my brother, and you, are all alike bereft 
of reason. Ye should think only of this poor Queen, 
and you are all inspired by your own absurd jealousies 
— The Monk is the only soldier and man of sense 
amongst you all. — My Lord Abbot,” she cried aloud, 
“ were it not better we should draw to the westward, 
and wait the event that God shall send us, instead of re- 
maining here in the highway, endangering the Queen’s 
person, and cumbering the troops in their advance .^” 

“ You say well, my daughter,” replied the Abbot, 
“ had we but one to guide us where the Queen’s person 
may be in safety — Our nobles hurry to the conflict with- 
out casting a thought on the very cause of the war.” 

“ Follow me,” said a knight, or man-at-arms, well 
mounted,and accoutred completely in black armour, but 
having the visor of his helmet closed, and bearing no 
crest on his helmet, or device upon his shield. 

“ We will follow no stranger,” said the Abbot, “ with- 
out some warrant of his truth.” 

“ I am a stranger and in your hands,” said the horse- 
man ; “ if you wish to know more of me, the Queen 
herself will be your warrant.” 

The Queen had remained fixed to the spot, as if dis- 
abled by fear, yet mechanically smiling, bowing, and 
waving her hand, as banners w^ere lowered and spears 
depressed before her, while, emulating the strife betwixt 
SeytOn and Arbroath, band on band pressed forward 
their march towards the enemy. Scarce, however, had 
the black rider whispered something in her ear, than she 
assented to what he said ; and when he spoke aloud, 
and with an air of command, “ Gentlemen, it is the 


236 


THE ABBOT. 


Queen’s pleasure tliat you should follow rne,” Mary 
uttered, with something like eagerness, the word “ Yes.” 

All were in motion in an instant, for the black horse- 
man, throwing off a sort of apathy of manner, which his 
first appearance indicated, spurred his horse to and fro, 
making him take such active bounds and short turns as 
showed tlie rider master of the animal ; and getting the 
Queen’s little retinue in some order for marching, he led 
them to the left, directing his course towards a castle, 
which, crowning a gentle yet commanding eminence, 
presented an extensive view over the country beneath, 
and in particular, commanded a view of those heights 
which both armies hastened to occupy, and which it was 
now apparent must almost instantly be the scene of 
struggle and dispute. 

“ Yonder towers,” said the Abbot, questioning the 
sable horseman, “ to whom do they belong F — and are 
they now in the hands of friends ?” 

“ They are untenanted,” replied the stranger, “ or, 
at least, they have no hostile inmates. — But urge these 
youths. Sir Abbot, to make more haste — this is but an 
evil time to satisfy their idle curiosity by peering out upon 
the battle in which they are to take no share.” 

“ The worse luck mine,” said Henry Seyton, who 
overheard him ; “ I would rather be under my father’s 
banner at this moment than be made Chamberlain of 
Holyrood, for this my present duty of peaceful ward 
well and patiently discharged.” 

“ Your place under your father’s banner will shortly 
be right dangerous,” said Roland Avenel, who, pressing 
his horse towards the westward, had still his look revert- 
ed to the armies ; “ for I see yonder body of cavalry, 
which presses from the eastward, will reach the village 
ere Lord Seyton can gain it.” 

‘‘ They are but cavalry,” said Seyton, looking atten- 
tively ; “ they cannot hold the village without shot of 
harquebuss.” 


THE ABBOT. 


237 


“ Look more closely,” said Roland ; “ you will see 
that each of these horsemen who advance so rapidly 
from Glasgow, carries a footman behind him.” 

“ Now, by Heaven, he speaks well !” said the black 
cavalier ; “ one of you two must go carry the news to 
Lord Seyton and Lord Arbroath, that they hasten not 
their horsemen on before the foot, but advance more 
regularly,” 

“ Be that my errand,” said Roland, “ for I first 
marked the stratagem of the enemy.” 

“ But, by your leave,” said Seyton, “ yonder is my 
father’s banner engaged, and it best becomes me to go 
to the rescue.” 

“ I will stand by the Queen’s decision,” said Roland 
Avenel. 

“ What new appeal ? — what new quarrel said 
Queen Mary — “ Are there not in yonder dark host ene- 
mies enough to Mary Stuart, but must her very friends 
turn enemies to each other 

“ Nay, madam,” said Roland, “ the young Master 
of Seyton and I did but dispute who should leave your 
person to do a most needful message to the host. He 
thought his rank entitled him, and I deemed that the 
person of least consequence, being myself, were better 
perilled” 

“ Not so,” said the Queen ; “ if one must leave me, 
be it Seyton.” 

Henry Seyton bowed till the white plumes on his hel- 
met mixed with the flowing mane of his gallant war- 
horse, then placed himself firmly in the saddle, shook his 
lance aloft with an air of triumph and determination, and 
striking his horse with the spurs, made towards his fath- 
er’s banner, which was still advancing up the hill, and 
dashed his steed over every obstacle that occurred in his 
headlong path. 

“ My brother ! my father !” exclaimed Catherine, 
with an expression of agonized apprehension — “ they 
are in the midst of peril, and I in safety!” 


238 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Would to God,” said Roland, “ that I were ^^ith 
them, and could ransom every drop of their blood by 
two of mine !” 

“ Do I not know thou dost wish it ?” said Catherine 
— “ Can a woman say to a man what I have well nigh 
said to thee, and yet think that he could harbour fear or 
faintness of heart ? — Tliere is that in yon distant sound of 
approaching battle that pleases me even while it affrights 
me. I would I were a man, that I might feel that stern 
delight, without the mixture of terror !” 

“ Ride up, ride up. Lady Catherine Seyton,” cried 
the Abbot, as they still swept on at a rapid pace, and 
were now close beneath the walls of the castle — “ ride 
up, and aid Lady Fleming to support the Queen — she 
gives way more and more.” 

They halted and lifted Mary from the saddle, and 
were about to support her towards the castle, when she 
said faintly, “ Not there — not there — these walls will I 
never enter more !” 

“ Be a Queen, madam,” said the Abbot, “ and for- 
get that you are a woman.” 

“ O, I must forget much, much more,” answered the 
unfortunate Mary, in an under tone, “ ere I can look 
with steady eyes on these well-known scenes ! — I must 
forget the days which I spent here as the bride of the 
lost — the murdered” 

‘‘ This is the Castle of Crookstone,” said the Lady 
Fleming, “ in which the Queen held her first court af 
ter she was married to Darnley.” 

“ Heaven,” said the Abbot, “ thy hand is upon us ^ 
— Bear yet up, madam — your foes are the foes of Holy 
Church, and God will this day decide whether Scotland 
shall be Catholic or heretic.” 

A heavy and continued fire of cannon and musketry, 
bore a tremendous burden to his words, and seemed far 
more than they to recall the spirits of the Queen. 

“ To yonder tree,” she said, pointing to a yew tree, 
which grew on a small mount close to the castle.} “ I 


THE ABBOT. 


239 


know it well — from thence you may see a prospect wide 
as from the peaks of Schehallion.” 

And freeing herself from her assistants, she walked 
with a determined, yet somewhat wild step, up to the 
slem of the noble yew. The Abbot, Catherine, and 
Roland Avenel followed her, while Lady Fleming kept 
back the inferior persons of her train. The black horse- 
man also followed the Queen, waiting on her as closely 
as the shadow upon the light, but ever remaining at the 
distance of two or three yards — he folded his arms on 
his bosom, turned his back to the battle, and seemed 
solely occupied by gazing on Mary, through the bars of 
his closed visor. The Queen regarded him not, but fix- 
ed her eyes upon the spreading yew. 

“ Ay, fair and stately tree,” she said, as if at the sight 
of it she had been rapt away from the present scene, 
and had overcome the horror which had oppressed her 
at the first approach to Crookstone, “ there thou stand- 
est, gay and goodly as ever, though thou hearest the 
sounds of war, instead of the vows of love. All is gone 
since I last greeted thee — love and lover — vows and 
vower — king and kingdom. — How goes the field, my 
Lord Abbot ? — with us I trust — yet what but evil can 
Mary’s eyes witness from this spot !” 

Her attendants eagerly bent their eyes on the field ot 
battle, but could discover nothing more than that it was 
obstinately contested. The small inclosures and cottage 
gardens in the village, of which they had a full and com- 
manding view, and which shortly before lay, with their lines 
of sycamore and ash-trees, so still and quiet in the mild 
light of a May sun, were now each converted into a line 
of fire, canopied by smoke ; and the sustained and con- 
stant report of the musketry and cannon, mingled with 
the shouts of the meeting combatants, showed that as yet 
neither party had given ground. 

“ Many a soul finds its final departure to heaven or 
hell, in these awful thunders,” said the Abbot ; “ let 
those that believe in the Holy Church join me in orisons 
for victory in this dreadful combat.” 


240 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Not here — not here,” said the unfortunate Queen , 
“ pray not here, father, or pray in silence — my mind is 
too much torn between the past and the present, to dare 
to approach the heavenly throne — Or, if ye will pray, be 
it for one whose fondest affections have been her great- 
est crimes, and who has ceased to be a queen, only be- 
cause she was a deceived and a tender-hearted woman.” 

“ Were it not well,” said Roland, “ thatl rode some- 
what nearer the hosts, and saw the fate of the day 

“ Do so, in the name of God,” said the Abbot ; “ for 
if our friends are scattered, our flight must be hasty — but 
beware thou approach not too nigh the conflict, there is 
more than thine own life depends on thy safe return.” 

“ O, go not too nigh,” said Catherine ; “ but fail not 
to see how the Seytons fight, and how they bear them- 
selves.” 

“ Fear nothing, 1 will be on my guard,” said Roland 
Avenel ; and without waiting further answer, rode to- 
wards the scene of conflict, keeping, as he rode, the 
higher and uninclosed ground, and ever looking cautious- 
ly around him, for fear of involving himself in some 
hostile party. As he approached, the shots rung sharp 
and more sharply on his ear, the shouts came wilder and 
wilder, and he felt that thick beating of the heart, that 
mixture of natural apprehension, intense curiosity, and 
anxiety for the dubious event, which even the bravest 
experience when they approach alone to a scene of in- 
terest and of danger. 

At length he drew so close that from a bank, screen- 
ed by bushes and underw’ood, he could distinctly see 
where the struggle was most keenly maintained. This 
was in a hollow way, leading to the village, up which the 
Queen’s vanguard had marched with more hasty courage 
than well-advised conduct, for the purpose of possessing 
themselves of that post of advantage. They found their 
scheme anticipated, and the hedges and inclosures already 
occupied by the enemy, led by the celebrated Kirkcaldy 
of Grange, and the Earl of Morton ; and not small was the 
loss which they sustained while struggling forward to come 


THE ABBOT. 


241 


to close with the men-at-arms on the other side. But, 
as the Queen’s followers were chiefly noblemen and 
barons, with their kinsmen and followers, they had press- 
ed onward, contemning obstacles and danger, and had, 
when Roland arrived on the ground, met hand to hand 
at the gorge of the pass with the Regent’s van-guard, 
and endeavoured to bear them out of the village at the 
spear-point; while their foes, equally determined to keep 
the advantage which they had attained, struggled with 
the like obstinacy to drive back the assailants. 

Both parties were on foot, and armed in proof; so that, 
when the long lances of the front ranks were fixed in 
each other’s shields, corslets, and breast-plates, the strug- 
gle resembled that of two bulls, who, fixing their front- 
lets hard against each other, remain in that posture for 
hours, until the superior strength or obstinacy of the one 
compels the other to take to flight, or bears him down to 
the earth. Thus locked together in the deadly struggle, 
which swayed slowly to and fro, as one or other party 
gained the advantage, those who fell were trampled on 
alike by friends and foes ; those whose weapons were 
broken retired from the front rank, and had their place 
supplied by others ; while the rearward ranks, unable 
otherwise to take share in the combat, fired their pistols, 
and hurled their daggers, and the points and truncheons 
of the broken weapons, like javelins against the enemy. 

“ God and the Queen !” resounded from the one party ; 

God and the King !” thundered from the other : while, 
in the name of their sovereign, fellow-subjects on both sides 
shed each other’s blood, and, in the name of their Creator, 
defaced his image. Amid the tumult was often heard 
the voices of the captains, shouting their commands ; ot 
leaders and chiefs, crying their gathering words ; ot 
groans and shrieks from the falling and the dying. 

The strife had lasted nearly an hour, the strength of 
both parties seemed exhausted; but their rage was una- 
bated, and their obstinacy unsubdued, when Roland, who 
turned eye and ear to all around him, saw a column of 
21 VOL. II. 


2:2 


TIE ABBOT. 


infantry headed by a few horsemen, wheel round the base 
of the bank where he had stationed himself, and levelling 
their long lances, attack the flank of the Queen’s van- 
guard, closely engaged as they were in conflict on 
their front. The very first glance showed him that the 
leader who directed this movement was the Knight ol 
Avenel, his ancient master, and the next convinced him 
that its effect would be decisive. The result of the at- 
tack of fresh and unbroken forces upon the flank of those 
already wearied with a long and obstinate struggle, was, 
indeed, instantaneous. 

The column of the assailants, which had hitherto shown 
one dark, dense, and united line of helmets, surmounted 
with plumage, was at once broken and hurled in confusion 
down the hill, which they had so long endeavoured to 
gain. In vain were the leaders heard calling upon their 
followers to stand to the combat, and seen personally re- 
sisting when all resistance was evidently vain. They 
were slain, or felled to the earth, or hurried backwards 
by the mingled tide of flight and pursuit. What were 
Roland’s thoughts on beholding the rout, and feeling that 
all that remained for him was to turn bridle, and endeav- 
our to ensure the safety of the Queen’s person. Yet, 
keen as his grief and shame might be, they were both 
forgotten, when, ahnost close beneath the bank which he 
occupied, he saw Henry Seyton forced away from his 
own party in the tumult, covered with dust and blood, 
and defending himself desperately against several of the 
enemy who had gathered around him, attracted by his 
gay armour. Roland paused not a moment, but pushing 
his steed down the bank, leaped him amongst the hostile 
party, dealt three or four blows amongst them, which 
struck down two, and made the rest stand aloof; then 
reaching Seyton his hand, he exhorted him to seize fast 
hold on his horse’s mane. 

“ We live or die together this day,” said he ; “ keep 
but fast hold till we are out of the press, and then my 
horse is yours.” 


THE ABBOT. 


243 


Seyton heard and exerted his remaining strength, and, 
by their joint efforts, Roland brought him out of danger, 
and behind the spot from whence lie had witnessed the 
disastrous conclusion of the fight. But no sooner were 
they under shelter of the trees, than Seyton let go his 
hold, and in spite of Roland’s efforts to support him, fell 
at length on the turf, “ Trouble yourself no more with 
me,” he said ; “ this is my first and my last battle — and 
1 have already seen too much of it to wish to see the close. 
Hasten to save the Queen — and commend me to Cath- 
erine — she will never more be mistaken for me nor I 
for her — the last sword-stroke has made an eternal dis- 
tinction.” 

“ Let me aid you to mount my horse,” said Roland 
eagerly, “ and you may yet be saved — I can find my own 
way on foot — turn but my horse’s head westward, and he 
will carry you fleet and easy as the wind.” 

“ I will never mount steed more,” said the youth ; 
“-farewell — I love thee better dying, than ever I thought 
to have done while in life — I would that old man’s blood 
were not on my hand — Sancte Benedicite ora pro me!— 
Stand not to look on a dying man, but haste to save the 
Queen.” 

These words were spoken with the last effort of his 
voice, and scarce were they uttered ere the speaker was 
no more. They recalled Roland to the sense of the duty 
which he had well-nigh forgotten, but they did not reach 
his ears only. 

“ The Queen — where is the Queen ?” said Sir Halbert 
Glendinning, who, followed by two or three horsemen, ap- 
peared at this instant. Roland made no answer, but 
turning his horse, and confiding in his speed, gave him 
at once rein and spur, and rode over height and hollow 
towards the Castle of Crookstone. More heavily armed, 
and mounted upon a horse of less speed. Sir Halbert 
Glendinning followed with couched lance, calling out as 
he rode, “ Sir, with the holly-branch, halt, and show your 
right to bear that badge — fly not thus cowardly, nor dis- 
honour the cognizance thou deservest not to wear !— 


244 


THE ABBOT. 


Halt, sir coward, or by Heaven, I will strike thee with 
my lance on the back, and slay thee like a dastard — I am 
the Knight of Avenel — 1 am Sir Halbert Glendinning.” 

But Roland, who had no purpose of encountering his 
old master, and who besides knew the Queen’s safety de- 
pended on his making the best speed he could, answered 
not a word to the defiances and reproaches which Sir 
Halbert continued to throw out against him ; but making 
the best use of his spurs, rode yet harder than before, 
and had gained about a hundred yards upon his pursuer, 
when coming near to the yew-tree where he had left the 
Queen, he saw them already getting to horse, and cried 
out as loud as he could, “ Foes ! foes ! — Ride for it, 
fair ladies — Brave gentlemen, do vour devoir to protect 
them!” 

So saying, he wheeled his horse, and avoiding the shock 
of Sir Halbert Glendinning, charged one of that knight’s 
followers, who was nearly on a line with him, so rudely with 
his lance, that he overthrew horse and man. He then drew 
his sword and attacked the second, while the black man- 
at-arms, throwing himself in the way of Glendinning, 
they rushed on each other so fiercely, that both horses 
were overthrown, and the riders lay rolling on the plain. 
Neither was able to arise, for the black horseman was 
pierced through with Glendinning’s lance, and the Knight 
of Avenel, oppressed with the weight of his own horse 
and sorely bruised besides, seemed in little better plight 
than he whom he had mortally wounded. 

Yield thee, Sir Knight of Avenel, rescue or no res- 
cue,” said Roland, who had put a second antagonist out 
of condition to combat, and hastened to prevent Glen- 
dinning from renewing the conflict. 

“ I may not choose but yield,” said Sir Halbert, “ since 
I can no longer fight, but it shames me to speak such a 
word to a coward like thee.” 

“ Call me not coward,” said Roland, lifting his visor, 
and helping his prisoner to rise, “ since but for old kind- 
ness at thy hand, and yet more at thy lady’s, I had met 
thee as a brave man should.” 


THE ABBOT. 


245 


“ The favourite page of my wife !” said Sir Halbert, 
astonished : “ ah ! wretched boy, 1 have heard of thy 
treason at Lochleven.” 

“ Reproach him not, my brother,” said the Abbot, 
“ he was but an agent in the hands of heaven.” 

“ To horse, to horse !” said Catherine Seyton ; 
“ mount and be gone, or we are all lost. I see our gal- 
lant army flying for many a league — To horse, my Lord 
Abbot — to horse, Roland — My gracious liege, to horse ! 
ere this, we should have ridden a mile.”. 

“ Look on these features,” said Mary, pointing to the 
dying knight, who had been unhelmed by some compas- 
sionate hand ; “ look there, and tell me if she who ruins 
all who love her, ought to fly a foot farther to save her 
wretched life!” 

The reader must have long anticipated the discovery, 
which the Queen’s feelings had made before her eyes 
confirmed it. It was the features of the unhappy George 
Douglas, on which death was stamping his mark. 

“ Look — look at him well,” said the Queen, “ thus 
has it been with all that loved Mary Stuart ! — The roy- 
alty of Francis, the wit of Chastelar, the power and gal- 
lantry of the gay Gordon, the melody of Rizzio, the 
portly form and youthful grace of Darnley, the bold ad- 
dress and courtly manners of Bothwell — and now the 
deep-devoted passion of the noble Douglas — nought 
could save them — they looked on the wretched Mary, 
and to have loved her was crime enough to deserve early 
death ! No sooner had the victim formed a kind thought 
of me, than the poisoned cup, the axe and block, the 
dagger, the mine, were ready to punish them for casting 
away affection on such a wretch as 1 am! — Importune 
me not — I will fly no farther — I can die but once, and I 
will die here.” 

While she spoke, her tears fell fast on the face of the 
dying man, who continued to fix his eyes on her with an 
eagerness of passion, which death itself could hardly 
subdue. — “ Mourn not for me,” he said faintly, “ but 
21* VOL. II. 


24G 


THE ABBOT. 


care for your own safety — I die in mine ar^riour as a 
Douglas should, and I die pitied by Mary Stuart !” 

He expired with these words, and without withdrawing 
his eyes from her face ; and the Queen, whose heart was 
of that soft and gentle mould, which, in domestic life, 
and with a more suitable partner than Darnley, might 
have made her happy, remained weeping by the dead 
man, until recalled to lierself by the Abbot, who found it 
necessary to use a style of unusual remonstrance. “ We 
also, madam,” he said, “ we, your Grace's devoted fol- 
lovyers, have friends and relatives to weep for. 1 leave 
a brother in imminent jeopardy — the husband of the Lady 
Fleming — the father and brother of the Lady Catherine, 
are all in yonder bloody field, slain, it is to be feared, or 
prisoners. We forget the fate of our owm nearest and 
dearest, to wait on our Queen, and she is too much occu- 
pied with her own sorrows to give one thought to ours.” 

“ I deserve not your reproach, father,” said the Queen 
checking her tears ; “ but I am docile to it — where nfiust 
we go ? — what must we do .^” 

“ We must fly, and that instantly,” said the Abbot ; 
“ whither is not so easily answered, but we may dispute it 
upon the road — Lift her to her saddle, and set forward. ”1^ 

They set off accordingly — Roland lingered a moment, to 
command the attendants of the Knight of Avenel to convey 
their master to the Castle of Crookstone, and to say that he 
demanded from him no other condition of liberty, than his 
word, that he and his followers would keep secret the direc- 
tion in which the Queen fled. As he turned his rein to de- 
part, the honest countenance of Adam Woodcock stared 
upon him with an expression of surprise, which, at anoth- 
er time, would have excited his hearty mirth. He had 
been one of the followers who had experienced the weight 
of Roland’s arm, and they now knew each other, Roland 
having put up his visor, and the good yeoman having 
thrown away his barret-cap, with the iron bars in front, 
that he might the more readily assist his master. Into 
this barret-cap, as it lay on the ground, Roland forgdt not 
to drop a few gold pieces, (fruits of the Queen’s liber- 


THE ABBOT. 


247 


ality,) and with a signal of kind recollection and endur- 
ing friendship, he departed at full gallop to overtake the 
Queen, the dust raised by her train being already far 
down the hill. 

“ It is not fairy-money,” said honest Adam, weighing 
and handling the gold — “ And it was Master Roland him- 
self, that is a certain thing— the same open hand, and by 
Our Lady ! — (shrugging his shoulders) — the same ready 
fist ! — My lady will hear of this gladly, for she mourns 
for him as if he were her son. And to see how gay he 
is ! But these light lads are sure to be uppermost as 
the froth to be on the top of the quart-pot — Your man 
of solid parts remains ever a Falconer.” So saying, he 
went to aid his comrades, who had now come up in 
greater numbers, to carry his master into the Castle of 
Crookstone. 




CHAPTER XVIII. 


My native land, good night ! 


Byron. 


Many a bitter tear was shed during the hasty flight of 
Queen Mary, over fallen hopes, future prospects, and 
slaughtered friends. The deaths of the brave Douglas, 
and of the fiery but gallant young Seyton, seemed to af- 
fect the Queen as much as the fall from the throne, on 
which she had so nearly been again seated. Catherine 
Seyton devoured in secret her own grief, anxious to sup- 
port the broken spirits of her mistress ; and the Abbot, 
bending his troubled thoughts upon futurity, endeavoured 
in vain to form some plan which had a shadow of hope. 
The spirit of young Roland, for he also mingled in the 
hasty debates held by the companions of the Queen’s 
flight, continued unchecked and unbroken. 


248 


THE ABBOT. 


“ Your Majesty,” he said, “ has lost a battle — Your 
ancestor, Bruce, lost seven successively, ere he sat tri- 
umphant on the Scottish throne, and proclaimed with the 
voice of a victor, in the field of Bannockburn, the inde- 
pendence of his country. Are not these heaths, which 
we may traverse at will, better than the locked, guarded, 
and lake-moated Castle of Lochleven ^ — We are free — 
in that one word there is comfort for all our losses.” 

He struck a bold note, but the heart of Mary made 
no response. 

“ Better,” she said, ‘‘ I had still been in Lochleven, 
than seen the slaughter made by rebels among the 
subjects who offered themselves to death for my sake. 
Speak not to me of further efforts — they would only cost 
the lives of you the friends who recommend them ! I would 
not again undergo what I felt, when I saw from yonder 
mount the swords of the fell horsemen of Morton raging 
among the faithful Seytons and Hamiltons, for their loy- 
alty to their Queen — I would not again feel what I felt 
when Douglas’s life-blood stained my mantle for his love 
to Mary Stuart — not to be empress of all that Britain’s 
seas enclose. Find for me some place where 1 can hide 
my unhappy head, which brings destruction on all who 
love it — it is the last favour that Mary asks of her faith- 
ful followers.” 

In this dejected mood, but still pursuing her flight with 
unabated rapidity, the unfortunate Mary, after having 
been joined by Lord Herries and a few followers, at 
length halted, for the first time, at the Abbey of Dun- 
drennan, nearly sixty miles distant from the field of battle. 
In this remote corner of Galloway, the Reformation not 
having yet been strictly enforced against the monks, a 
few still lingered in their cells unmolested ; and the Prior, 
with tears and reverence, received the fugitive Queen at 
the gate of his convent. 

“ I bring you ruin, my good Father,” said the Queen, 
as she was lifted from her palfrey. 

“ It is welcome,” said the Prior^ “ if it comes in the 
trail) of duty.” 


TUE ABBOT. 


249 


Placed on the ground and supported by her ladies, the 
Queen looked for an instant at her palfrey, which, jaded 
and drooping its head, seemed as if it mourned the dis- 
tresses of its mistress. 

“ Good Roland,” said the Queen, whispering, “ let 
Rosabelle be cared for — ask thy heart, and it will tell thee 
why I make this trifling request even in this awful hour.” 

She was conducted to her apartment, and in the hur- 
ried consultation of her attendants, the fatal resolution of 
the retreat to England was finally adopted. In the morn- 
ing it received her approbation, and a messenger was 
despatched to the English warden, to pray him for safe- 
conduct and hospitality, on the part of the Queen of Scot- 
land. On the next day, the Abbot Ambrose walked in the 
garden of the Abbey with Roland, to whom he expressed 
his disapprobation of the course pursued. “ It is mad- 
ness and ruin,” he said ; “ better commit herself to the 
savage Highlanders or wild Bordermen, than to the faith 
of Elizabeth. A woman to a rival woman — a presump- 
tive successor to the keeping of a jealous and childless 
Queen ! — Roland, Herries is true and loyal, but his 
counsel has ruined his mistress.” 

“ Ay, ruin follows us every where,” said an old man, 
with a spade in his hand, and dressed like a lay-brother, 
of whose presence, in the vehemence of his exclamation, 
the Abbot had not been aware — “ Gaze not on me with 
such wonder ! — I am he who w^as the Abbot Boniface at 
Kennaquhair, who was the gardener Blinkhoolie at Loch- 
leven, hunted round to the place in which I served my 
noviciate, and now ye are come to rouse me up again ! 
— A weary life I have had for one to whom peace was 
ever the dearest blessing!” 

“ We will soon rid you of our company, good Father,” 
said the Abbot; “ and the Queen will, T fear, trouble 
your retreat no more.” 

“ Nay, you said as much before,” said the querulous 
old man, “ and yet I was put forth from Kinross, and pil- 
laged by troopers on the road. — They took from me the 
certificate that you wot of — that of the Baron — ay, he 


THE AEiior. 


was a moss trooper like themselves — You asked me of -t, 
and 1 could never find it, but they found it — it showed 
the marriage of — of — my memory fails me — now see how 
men differ ! Father Nicholas would have told you an 
hundred tales of the Abbot Ingrlram, on whose soul God 
have mercy ! — He was, I warrant you, fourscore and six, 
and I am not more than — let me see” — 

“ Was not Avenel the name you seek, my good Fa- 
ther said Roland, impatiently, yet moderating his lone 
for fear of alarming or oiSending the infirm old man. 

“ Ay, right — Avenel, Julian Avenel — You are perfect 
in the name — I kept all the special confessions, judging 
it held with my vow to do so — I could not find it when my 
successor, Ambrosius, spoke on’t — but the troopers found 
it, and the Knight who commanded the party struck his 
breast, till his hauberk clattered like an empty watering- 
can.” 

“ Saint Mary !” said the Abbot, ‘‘ in whom could such 
a paper excite such interest What was the appearance 
of the Knight, his arms, his colours f” 

“ Ye distract me with your questions — I dared hardly 
look at him — they charged me with bearing letters for 
the Queen, and searched my mail — This was ail along of 
your doings at Lochleven.” 

“ I trust in God,” said the Abbot to Roland, who stood 
beside him, shivering and trembling with impatience, 
“ the paper has fallen into the hands of my brother — I 
heard he had been with his followers on the scout betwixt 
Stirling and Glasgow. — Bore not the Knight a holly- 
bough in his helmet — Canst thou not remember ?” 

“ O, remember — remember,” said the old man, pet- 
tishly ; “count as many years as I do, if your plots will 
let you, and see what, and how much you remember — 
Why, I scarce remember the pearmains which I grafied 
here with my own hands some fifty years since.” 

At this moment a bugle sounded loudly from the beach. 

“ It is the death-blast to Queen Mary’s royalty!” said 
Ambrosius ; “ the English warden’s answer has been re- 
ceived, favourable doubtless, for when was the door of 
the trap closed against the prey which it was set for 


THE ASHOT. 


251 


Droop not, Roland — this matter shall be sifted to the 
bottom — but vve must not now leave the Queen — follow 
rtie — let us do our duty, and trust the issue with God — 
Farewell, good Father — I will visit thee again soon.” 

He was about to leave the garden, followed by Roland, 
with half-reluctant steps. The Ex-Abbot resumed his 
spade. 

“ 1 could be sorry for these men,” he said, “ ay, and 
for that poor Queen, but what avail earthly sorrows to a 
man of fourscore f — and it is a rare dropping morning 
for the early colewort.” 

“ He is stricken with age,” said Ambrosius, as he 
dragged Roland down to the sea-beach ; “ we must let 
him take his time to collect himself — nothing now can 
be thought on but the fate of the Queen.” 

They soon arrived where she stood, surrounded by 
her little train and by her side the Sheriff of Cumber- 
land, a gentleman of the house of Lowther, richly dress- 
ed and accompanied by soldiers. The aspect of the 
Queen exhibited a singular mixture of alacrity and re- 
luctance to depart. Her language and gestures spoke 
hope and consolation to her attendants, and she seemed 
desirous to persuade even herself that the step she adopt- 
ed was secure, and that the assurance she had received 
of kind reception was altogether satisfactory ; but her 
quivering lip, and unsettled eye, betrayed at once her 
anguish at departing from Scotland, and her fears of 
confiding herself to the doubtful faith of England. 

“Welcome, my Lord Abbot,” she said, speaking to 
Ambrosius, “ and you, Roland Avenel, we have joyful 
news for you — our loving sister’s officer proffers us, in 
her name, a safe asylum from the rebels who have driven 
us from our own — only it grieves me we must here part 
from you for a short space.” 

“ Part from us, madam !” said the Abbot. “Is your 
welcome in England, then, to commence with the abridg- 
ment of your train and dismissal of your counsellors 

“ Take it not thus, good Father,” said Mary ; “ the 
Warden and the Sheriff, faithful servants of our Royal 
Sister, deem it necessary to obey her instructions in the 


252 


T1£E ABBOT. 


present case, even to the letter, and can only take upon 
them to admit me with my female attendants. An ex- 
press will instantly be despatched from London, assigning 
me a place of residence ; and I will speedily send to all 
of you whenever my Court shall be formed.” 

“ Your Court formed in England ! and while Eliza- 
beth lives and reigns said the Abbot — “ that will be 
when we shall see two suns in one heaven !” 

“ Do not think so,” replied the Queen ; “ we are 
well assured of our sister’s good faith. Elizabeth loves 
fame — and not all that she has won by her power and 
her wisdom will equal that which she will acquire by ex- 
tending her hospitality to a distressed sister ! — not all 
that she may hereafter do of good, wise, and great, would 
blot out the reproach of abusing our confidence. — Fare- 
well, my page — now my knight — farewell for a brief 
season. 1 will dry the tears of Catherine, or 1 will weep 
with her till neither of us can weep longer.” She held 
out her hand to Roland, who flinging himself on his 
knees, kissed it with much emotion. He was about to 
render the same homage to Catherine, when the Queen, 
assuming an air of sprightliness, said, “ Her lips, thou 
foolish boy ! — and, Catherine, coy it not — these English 
gentlemen should see, that, even in our cold clime, 
Beauty knows how to reward Bravery and Fidelity !” 

“ We are not now to learn the force of Scottish beau- 
ty, or the mettle of Scottish valour,” said the Sheriff of 
Cumberland, courteously — “ 1 would it were in my pow- 
er to bid these attendants upon her who is herself the 
mistress of Scottish beauty, as welcome to England as 
iny poor cares would make them. But our Queen’s 
orders are positive in case of such an emergence, and 
they must not be disputed by her subject. — May I re- 
mind your Majesty that the tide ebbs fast.^” 

The Sheriff took the Queen’s hand, and she had al- 
ready placed her foot on the gangway, by which she was 
to enter the skiff, when the Abbot, starting from a trance 
of grief and astonishment at the words of the Sheriff, 
rushed into the water, and seized upon her mantle. 


THE ABBOT. 


263 


“ She foresaw it ! — she foresaw it !” he exclaimed — 
“ she foresaw your flight into her realm ; and, foresee- 
ing it, gave orders you should be thus received. Blind- 
ed, deceived, doomed Princess ! your fate is sealed when 
you quit this strand. — Queen of Scotland, thou shaltnot 
leave thine heritage !” he continued, holding a still firmer 
grasp upon her mantle ; “ true men shall turn rebels to 
thy will, that they may save thee from captivity or death. 
Fear not the bills and bows whom that gay man has at 
his beck — we will withstand him by force. O, for the 
arm of my warlike brother ! — Roland Avenel, draw thy 
sword!” 

The Queen stood irresolute and frightened ; one foot 
upon the plank, the other on the sand of her native shore, 
which she was quitting for ever. 

“ What needs this violence. Sir Priest said the 
Sheriff of Cumberland ; “ I came hither at your Queen’s 
command, to do her service ; and I will depart at her 
least order, if she reject such aid as I can ofier. No 
marvel is it if our Queen’s wisdom foresaw that such 
chance as this might happen amidst the turmoils of your 
unsettled state ; and, while willing to afford fair hospital- 
ity to her Royal Sister, deemed it wise to prohibit the 
entrance of a broken army of her followers into the 
English frontier.” 

“ You hear,” said Queen Mary, gently unloosing her 
robe from the Abbot’s grasp, “ that we exercise full lib- 
erty of choice, in leaving this shore ; and, questionless, 
the choice will remain free to us in going to France, or 
returning to our own dominions, as we shall determine — 
Besides, it is too late — Your blessing. Father, and God 
speed thee !” 

May He have mercy on thee, Princess, and speed 
thee also 1” said the Abbot, retreating. “ But my soul 
tells me I look on thee for the last time !” 

The sails were hoisted, the oars were plied, the vessel 
went freshly on her way through the Frith, which divides 
the shores of Cumberland from those of Galloway ; but 
22 VOL. II. 


254 


THE ABBOT. 


not till the vessel diminished to the size of a child’s frig- 
ate, did the doubtful, and dejected, and dismissed fol- 
lowers of the Queen cease to linger on the sands ; and 
long, long could they discern the kerchief of Mary, as 
she waved the oft-repeated signal of adieu to her faithful 
adherents, and to the shores of Scotland. 


If good tidings of a private nature could have consol- 
ed Roland for parting with his mistress, and for the dis- 
tresses of his sovereign, he received such comfort some 
days subsequent to the Queen’s leaving Dundrennan. 
A breathless post — no other than Adam Woodcock — 
brought despatches from Sir Halbert Glendinning to the 
Abbot, whom he found, with Roland, still residing at 
Dundrennan, and in vain torturing Boniface with fresh 
interrogations. The packet bore an earnest invitation to 
his brother to make Avenel Castle for a time his resi- 
dence. ‘‘ The clemency of the Regent,” said the 
writer, “ has extended pardon both to Roland and to 
you, upon condition of your remaining a time under my 
wardship. And I have that to communicate respecting 
the parentage of Roland, which not only you will willing- 
ly listen to, but which will be also found to afford me, as 
the husband of his nearest relative, some interest in the 
future course of his life.” 

The Abbot read this letter, and paused, as if consid- 
ering what were best for him to do. Meanwhile, Wood- 
cock took Roland aside, and addressed him as follows : 
— ‘‘ Now, look. Master Roland, that you do not let any 
papistrie nonsense lure either the priest or you from the 
right quarry. See you, you ever bore yourself as a bit 
of a gentleman. Read that, and thank God that threw 
old Abbot Boniface in our way, as two of the Seyton’s 
men were conveying him towards Dundrennan here. 
We searched him for intelligence concerning that fair 
exploit of your’s at Lochleven, that has cost lYiany a 
man his life, and me a set of sore bones — and we found 
what is better for your purpose than our’s.” 


THE ABBOT. 


255 


The paper which he gave, was indeed, an attestation 
by Father Philip, subscribing himself unvvorth}’^ Sacris- 
tan, and brother of the House of Saint Mary’s, stating, 
“ that under a vow of secrecy, he had united, in the holy 
sacrament of marriage, Julian Avenel and Catherine 
Graeme ; but that Julian having repented of his union, 
he. Father Philip, had been sinfully prevailed on by him 
to conceal and disguise the same, according to a complot 
devised betwixt him and the said Julian Avenel, whereby 
the poor damsel was induced to believe that the cere- 
mony had been performed by one not in holy orders, and 
having no authority to that effect. Which sinful conceal- 
ment, the undersigned conceived to be the cause why 
he was abandoned to the misguiding of a water fiend, 
whereby he had been under a spell, which obliged him to 
answer every question, even touching the most solemn mat- 
ters, with idle snatches of old songs, besides being sorely 
afflicted with rheumatic pains ever after. Wherefore he 
had deposited this testificate and confession, with the day 
and date of the said marriage, with his lawful superior 
Boniface, Abbot of Saint Mary’s, sub sigillo confessionis.^^ 

It appeared by a letter from Julian, folded carefully up 
with the certificate, that the Abbot Boniface had, in effect, 
bestirred himself in the affair, and obtained from the Baron 
a promise to avow his marriage ; but the death of both Juli- 
an and his injured bride, together with the Abbot’s resigna- 
tion, his ignorance of the fate of their unhappy offspring, 
and, above all, the good father’s listless and inactive dispo- 
sition, had suffered the matter to become totally forgotten, 
until it was recalled by some accidental conversation with 
the Abbot Ambrosius concerning the fortunes of the Ave- 
nel family. At the request of his successor the quondam 
Abbot made search for it ; but, as he would receive no 
assistance in looking among the few records of spiritual 
experiences and important confessions, which he had 
conscientiously treasured, it might have remained for 
ever hidden amongst them, but for the more active re- 
searches of Sir Halbert Glendinning. 

“ So that you are like to be heir of Avenel at last, 
Master Roland, after my lord and lady have gone to 


256 


THE ABBOT. 


their place,” said Adam ; “ and as I have but one boon 
to ask, I trust you will not nick me with nay.” 

“ Not if it be in my power to say yes, my trusty friend.” 

“ Why then, I must needs, if I live to see that day, 
keep on feeding the eyasses with unwashed flesh,” said 
Woodcock sturdily, yet as if doubting the reception that 
his request might meet with. 

“ Thou shalt feed them with what you list for me,” 
said Roland, laughing ; “ I am not many months older 
than when I left the Castle, but I trust 1 have gathered 
wit enough to cross no man of skill in his own vocation.” 

“ Then I would not change places with the King’s 
falconer,” said Adam Woodcock, “ nor with the Queen’s 
neither — but they say she will be mewed up and never 
need one — I see it grieves you to think of it, and 1 could 
grieve for company, but what help for it — fortune will 
fly her own flight, let a man hollo himself hoarse.” 

The Abbot and Roland journeyed to Avenel, where 
the former was tenderly received by his brother, while 
the lady wept for joy to find that in her favourite orphan 
she had protected the sole surviving branch of her own 
family. Sir Halbert Glendinning and bis household 
were not a little surprised at the change which a brief 
acquaintance with the world had produced in their former 
inmate, and rejoiced to find, in the pettish, spoiled, and 
presuming page, a modest and unassuming young man, 
too much acquainted with his own expectations and char- 
acter, to be hot or petulant in demanding the considera- 
tion which was readily and voluntarily yielded to him. 
The old Major Domo Wingate was the first to sing his 
praises, to which Mrs. Lilias bore a loud echo, always 
hoping that God would teach him the true gospel. 

To the true gospel the heart of Roland had secretly 
long inclined, and the departure of the good Abbot for 
France, with the purpose of entering into some house of 
his order in that kingdom, removed his chief objection 
to renouncing the Catholic faith. Another might have 
existed in the duty which he owed to Magdalen Greeme, 
both by birth and from gratitude. But he learned, ero 


THE ABBOT. 


257 


he had been long a resident in Avenel, that his grand- 
mother had died at Cologne, in the performance of a 
penance too severe for her age, which she had taken 
upon herself in behalf of the Queen and Church of 
Scotland, so soon as she heard of the defeat at Lang- 
side. The zeal of the Abbot Ambrosius was more reg- 
ulated, but he retired into the Scottish convent of , 

and so lived there, that the fraternity were inclined to 
claim for him the honours of canonization. But he 
guessed their purpose, and prayed them, on his death- 
bed, to do no honours to the body of one as sinful as 
themselves ; but to send his body and his heart to be 
buried in Avenel burial-aisle, in the monastery of Saint 
Mary’s, that the last Abbot of that celebrated house of 
devotion might sleep among its ruins.^^ 

Long before that period arrived, Roland Avenel was 
wedded to Catherine Seyton, who after two years resi- 
dence with her unhappy mistress, was dismissed, upon 
her being subjected to closer restraint than had been at 
first exercised. She returned to her father’s house, and 
as Roland was acknowledged for the successor and law- 
ful heir of the ancient house of Avenel, greatly increas- 
ed as the estate was by the providence of Sir Halbert 
Glendinning, there occurred no objections to the match 
on the part of her family. Her mother was recently 
dead when she first entered the convent ; and her father 
in the unsettled times which followed Queen Mary’s 
flight to England, was not averse to an alliance with a 
youth, who, himself loyal to Queen Mary, still held 
some influence, through means of Sir Halbert Glendin- 
iiing, with the party in power. 

Roland and Catherine, therefore, were united, spite of 
their differing faiths ; and the White Lady, whose appa- 
rition had been infrequent when the House of Avenel 
seemed verging to extinction, was seen to sport by her 
haunted well, with a zone of gold around her bosom as 
broad as the baldric of an Earl. 

22 * VOL. II. 


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NOTES TO THE ABBOT, 


1. Page 35. The details of this remarkable event are, as given in the 
preceding chapter, imaginary; but the outline of the events is historical. 
Sir Robert Lindesay, brother to the author of the Memoirs, was at first in- 
trusted with- lhe delicate commission of persuading the imprisoned Queen to 
resign her crown. As he flatly refused to interfere, they determined to send 
the Lord Lindesay, one of the rudest and most violent of their own faction, 
with instructions, first to use fair persuasions, and if these did not succeed, to 
enter into harder terms. Knox associates Lord Ruthven with Lindesay in 
this alarming commission. He was the son of that Lord Ruthven who was 
prime agent in the murder of Rizzio; and little mercy was to be expected 
from his conjunqtion with Lindesay. 

The employment of such rude tools argued a resolution on the part of those 
who had the Queen’s person in their power, to proceed to the utmost extrem- 
ities, should they find Mary obstinate. To avoid this pressing danger. Sir 
Robert Melville was despatched by them to Lochleven, carrying with him, 
concealed in the scabbard of his sword, letters to the Queen from the Earl of 
Athole, Maitland of Lethington, and even from Throgmorton, the English 
ambassador, who was then favourable to the unfortunate Mary, conjuring her 
to yield to the necessity of the times, and to subscribe such deeds as Linde- 
say should lay before her, without being startled by their tenor ; and assuring 
her that her doing so, in the state of captivity under which she was placed, 
would neither, in law, honour, or conscience, be binding upon her when she 
should obtain her liberty. Submitting, by the advice of one part of her sub- 
jects, to the menace of the others, and learning that Lindesay was arrived in 
a boasting, that is, threatening humour, the Queen, “ with some reluctancy, 
and with tears,” saith Knox, subscribed one deed resigning her crown to her 
infant son, and another establishing the Earl of Murray regent. It seems 
agreed by historians, that Lindesay behaved with great brutality on the oc- 
casion. The deeds were signed 24th July, 1567. 

2. Page 62. Gan, Gano, or Ganelon of Mayence, is, in the Romances 
on the subject of Charlemagne and his Paladins, always represented as the 
traitor by whom the Christian champions are betrayed. 

3. Page 78. At Scottish fairs, the bailie, or magistrate, deputed by the 
lord in whose name the meeting is held, attends the fair with his guard, de- 
cides trifling disputes, and punishes on the spot any petty delinouencies. His 
attendants are usually armed with halberds, and, sometimes at least, escorted 
by music. Thus, in the “ Life and Death of Habbie Simpson,” we are told 
of that famous minstrel, — 

At fairs he play’d before the spear-men, 

And gaily graiihed in their gear-men ; — 

Steel bonnets, jacks, and swords shone clear then, 

Like ony bead ; 

Now wha shall play before sic weir-incn. 

Since Habbie’s dead 1” 


260 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT. 


4. Paj^c 86. This was tlic name given to the grand Mother Witch, the 
very Hecate of Scottish popular superstition. Her -name was bestowed, in 
one or two instances, upon sorceresses, who were held to resemble her by 
their superior skill in “ Hell’s black grammar.” 

5. Page 111. By an ancient, though improbable tradition, the Douglasses 
are said to have derived thqir name from a champion who had greatly distin- 
guished himself in an action. When the king demanded by whom the battle 
had been won, the attendants are said to have answered, “ Sholto Douglas, 
sir 5” which is said to mean, Yonder dark grey man.” But the name is 
undoubtedly territorial, and taken from Douglas river and dale. 

6. Page 176. A romancer, to use a Scottish phrase, wants but a hair to 
make a tether of. The whole detail of the steward’s supposed conspiracy 
against the life of Mary, is grounded upon an expression in one of her letters, 
which affirms, that Jasper Dryfesdale, one of the Laird of Lochleven’s ser- 
vants, had threatened to murder William Douglas, (for his share in the 
Queen’s escape,) and averred that he would plant a dagger in Mary’s own 
heart. — Chalmers’s Li/e of Queen Mary, vol. i. p. 278. 

7. Page 177. Pancakes. 

8. Page 185. Generally a disguised man; originally one who wears the 
cloak or mantle muffled round the lower part of the face to conceal his coun- 
tenance. I have on an ancient piece of iron the representation of a robber 
thus accoutred, endeavouring to make his way into a house, and opposed by 
a mastiff, to whom he in vain offers food. The motto is Spernit dona fdes. 
It is part of a fire-grate said to have belonged to Archbishop Sharpe. 

9. Page 188. Diamond-shaped ; literally, formed like the head of a quar- 
rel, or arrow for the crossbow. 

10. Page 195. A broken clan was one who had no chief able to find se- 
curity for their good behaviour— a clan of outlaws ; and the Graemes of the 
Debateable Land were in that condition. 

11. Page 197. A favourite, and said to be an unworthy one, of James V. 

12. Page 197. The names of these ladies, and a third frail favourite of 
James, are preserved in an epigram too gaillard for quotation. 

13. Page 204. Sir John Holland’s poem of The Howlet is known to col- 
lectors by the beautiful edition presented to the Bamiatyne Club by Mr. 
David Laing. 

14. Page 208. In the dangerous expedition to Aberdeenshire, Randolph, 
the English ambassador, gives Cecil the following account of Queen Mary’s 
demeanour ; — 

“ In all those garbulles, I assure your honour, I never saw the Queen mer- 
rier, never dismayed ; nor never thought I that stomache to be in her that I 
find. She repented nothing but, when the Lords and others, at Inverness, 
came in the morning from the watches, that she was not a man to know what 
life it was to lye all night in the fields, or to walk upon the causeway with a 
jack and a knapscap, a Glasgow buckler, and a broadsword.” — Randolph 
to Cecil, Septejnher 18, 1562. 

The writer of the above letter seems to have felt the same, impression 
which Catherine Seyton, in the text, considered as proper to the Queen’s 
presence among her armed subjects. 

Though we neither thought nor looked for other than on that day to have 
fought or never — what desperate blows would not have been given, when 


notes to the abbot. 


■261 


every man should have fought in the sight of so noble a Queen, and so many 
fair ladies, our enemies to have taken tnem from us, and we to save our hon- 
ours, not to be reft of them, your honour can easily judge \”—The same to 
the same, September 24, 1662. 

15. Page 212. It is well known that the escape of Queen Mary fiom 
Loehleven was effected by George Douglas, the youngest brother of Sir 
William Douglas, the lord of the castle j but the minute circumstances of the 
event have been a good deal confused, owing to two agents having been con- 
cerned in it who bore the same name. It has been always supposed that 
George Douglas was induced to abet Mary’s escape by the ambitious hope 
that, by such service, he might merit her hand. B t his purpose was discov- 
ered by his brother Sir William, and he was expelled from the castle. He 
continued, notwithstanding, to hover in the neighbourhood, and maintain a 
correspondence with the royal prisoner and others in the fortress. 

If we believe the English ambassador Drury, the Queen was grateful to 
George Douglas, and even proposed a marriage with him j a scheme which 
could hardly be serious, since she was still the wife of Bothwell, but which, if 
suggested at all, might be with a purpose of gratifying the Regent Murray's 
ambition, and propitiating his favour 3 since he was, it must be remembered, 
the brother uterine of George Douglas, for whom such high honour was said 
to be designed. 

The proposal, if seriously made, was treated as inadmissible, and Mary 
again resumed her purpose of escape. Her failure in her first attempt has 
some picturesque particulars, which might have been advantageously intro- 
duced in fictitious narrative. Drury sends Cecil the following account of the 
matter 

But after, upon the 25th of the last, (April 1567,) she interprised an € 
cape, and was the rather near effect, through her accustomed long lying t; 
bed all the morning. The manner of it was thus : there cometh in to her tl 
laundress early as other times before she was wanted, and the Queen accon 
ing to such a secret practice putteth on her the hood of the laundress, and i 
with the fardel of clothes and the muffler upon her face, passeth out and ei 
treth the boat to pass the Loch 3 which, after some space, one of them tin 
rowed said merrily, ‘ Let us see what manner of dame this is,’ and therewil 
offered to pull down her muffler, which, to defend, she put up her hand: 
which they espied to be very fair and white 3 wherewith they entered int 
suspicion whom she was, beginning to wonder at her enterprise. Wherec t 
she was little dismayed, but charged them, upon danger of their lives, to ro\ ' 
her over to the shore, w'hich they nothing regarded, but eftsoons rowed he 
back again, promising her it should be secreted, and especially from the Ion 
of the house, under whose guard she lyeth. It seems she knew her refuge 
and where to have found it if she had once landed 3 for there did, and yet d< 
linger, at a little village called Kinross, hard at the Loch side, the sam( 
George Douglas, one Sempil, and one Beton, the which two were sometimt 
her trusty servants, and, as yet appeareth, they mind her no less affection.’ 
— Bishop Keith’s History of the Affairs of Church and State in Scot- 
land, p. 490. 

Notwithstanding this disappointment, little spoke of by historians, Mary 
renewed her attempts to escape. There was in the Castle of Loehleven a 
lad, named William Douglas, some relation probably of the baron, and about 
eighteen years old. This youth proved as accessible to Queen Mary’s 
prayers and promises, as was the brother of his patron, George Douglas, from 
whom this William must be carefully kept distinct. It was young William 
who played the part commonly assigpied to his superior, George, stealing the 
keys of the castle from the table on which they lay, while his lord was at sup- 
per. He let the Queen and a waiting woman out of the apartment where 
they were secured, and out of the door itself, embarked with them in a small 
skiff, and rowed them to the shore. To prevent instant pursuit, he, for pre- 
caution’s sake, locked the iron grated door of the tower, and threw the keys 


2C2 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT. 


into the lake. They found George Douglas and the Queen’s servant, Belon, 
waiting for them, and Lord 8031011 and James Hamilton of Orbieston in at- 
tendance, at the head of a party of faithful followers, with whoiii they fled to 
Niddrie Castle, and from thence to Hamilton. 

In narrating this romantic story, both history and tradition confuse the two 
Douglasses together, and confer on George the successful execution of the 
escape from the castle, the merit of which belongs, in reality, to the bo}’ cal- 
led William, or, more frequently, the' Little Douglas, either from his youth or 
his slight stature. The reader will observe, that in the romance, the part of 
the Little Douglas has been assigned to Roland Graeme. In another case, it 
would be tedious to point out in a work of amusement such minute points of 
historical fact 5 but the general interest taken in the fate of Queen Mar3% ren- 
ders every thing of consequence which connects itself with her misfortunes. 

16. Page 246. I am informed in the most polite manner, by D. MaeVean, 
Esq. of Glasgow, that I have been incorrect in m3' locality, in giving an ac- 
count of the battle of Langside. Crookstone Castle, he observes. Ties four 
miles west from the field of battle, and rather in the rear of Murray’s army. 
The real place from which Mary saw the rout of her last army, was Cathcart 
Castle, winch, being a mile and a half east from Langside, was situated in 
the rear of the Queen’s own army. I was led astray in the present case, by 
the authority of my deceased friend, James Grahame, the excellent and amia- 
ble author of the Sabbath, in his drama on the subject of Queen Mary ; and 
b3’ a traditionary report of Mary having seen the battle from the Castle of 
Crookstone, which seemed so much to increase the interest of the scene, that 
I have been unwilling to make, in this particular instance, the fiction give 
way to the fact, which last is undoubtedly in favour of Mr. MaeVean’s 
system. 

It is singular how tradition, which is sometimes a sure guide to truth, is, in 
other cases, prone to mislead us. In the celebrated field of battle at Killie- 
crankie, the traveller is struck with one of those rugged pillars of rough stone, 
which indicate the scenes of ancient conflict. A friend of the author, well 
acquainted with the circumstances of the battle, was standing near this large 
stone, and looking on the scene around, when a Highland ^lepherd hurried 
down from the hill to offer his services as cicerone, and proceeded to inform 
him, that Dundee was slain at that stone, which was raised to his m‘^^:ory. 

Fie, Donald,” answered my friend, “ how can you tell such a sU , to a 
stranger ? I am sure you know well enough that Dundee was killed ; y con- 
siderable distance from this place, near the house of Fascally, a^^*\.at this 
stone was here long before the battle, in 1688 .” — “ Oich ! oich !” said Donald, 
no way abashed, '^and your honour’s in the right, and I see you ken a' 
about it. And he wasna killed on the spot neither, but lived till the next morn- 
ing ; but a’ the Saxon gentlemen like best to hear he was killed at the great 
stane.” It is on the same principle of pleasing my readers, that I retain 
Crookstone Castle instead of Cathcart. 

If, however, the author has taken a liberty in removing ?he actual field of 
battle somewhat to the eastward, he has been tolerably strict in adhering to 
the incidents of the engagement, as will appear from a corr.parison of events 
in the novel, with the following account from an old writer. 

The Regent was out on foot and all his company, except the Laird of 
Grange, Alexander Hume of Manderston, and some Borderers to the number 
of two hundred. The Laird of Grange had already viewed the ground, ana 
with all imaginable diligence caused every horseman to take behind him a 
footman of the Regent^, to guard behind them, and rode with speed to the 
head of the Langside-hill, and set down the footmen with their eulverings at 
the head of a straight lane, where there were some cottage houses and yards 
of great advantage. Which soldiers Avith their continued shot killed 'divers of 
the vaunt guard, led by the Hamiltons, who, courageously and fiercely as- 
cending up the hill, were already out of breath, when the Regent’s vaunt 
guard joined with them. Where the worthy Lord Hume fought on foot with 


NOTES TO THE ABBOT. 


2G3 


his pike in his hand v'ery manfully, assisted by the I^aird of Cessford, his 
brother-in-law, who helped him up again when he was strucken to the ground 
by many strokes upon his face, through the throwing pistols at him after they 
had been discharged. He was also wounded with staves, and had many 
strokes of spears through his legs j for he and Grange, at the joining, cried to 
let their adversaries first lay down their spears, to bear up theirs ; which spears 
were so thick fixed in the others’ jacks, that some of the pistols and great 
staves that were thrown by them which were behind, might be seen lying up- 
on the spears. 

'' Upon the Queen’s side the Earl of Argyle commanded the battle, and 
the Lord of Arbroath the vaunt guard. But the Regent committed to the 
Laird of Grange the special care, as being an experimented captain, to over- 
see every danger, and to ride to every wing, to encourage and make help 
where greatest need was. He perceived, at the first joining, the right wing 
of the Regent’s vaunt guard put back, and like to fly, whereof the greatest 
part were commons of the barony of Renfrew 5 whereupon he rode to them, 
ciiid told them that their enemy was already turning their backs, requesting them 
to stay and debate till he should bring them fresh men forth of the battle. 
Whither at full speed he did ride alone, and told the Regent that the enemy 
were shaken and flying away behind the little village, and desired a few number 
of fresh men to go with him. Where he found enough willing, as the Lord 
Lindesay, the Laird of Lochleven, Sir James Balfour, and all the Regent’s 
servants, who followed him with diligence, and reinforced that wing which 
was beginning to fly ; which fresh men with their loose weapons struck the 
enemies in their flank and faces, which forced them incontinent to give place 
and turn back after long fighting and pushing others to and fro with their 
spears. There were not many horsemen to pursue after them, and the Re- 
gent cried to save and not to kill, and Grange was never cruel, so that there 
were few slain and taken. And the only slaughter was at the first rencounter 
by the shot of the soldiers, which Grange had planted at the lane-head behind 
some dikes.” 

It is remarkable that, while passing through the small town of Renfrew, 
some partisans, adherents of the House of Lennox, attempting to arrest Queen 
J*.Iary and her attendants, were obliged to make way for her, not without 
slaur^hter. 

’age 257. This was not the explanation of the incident of searching 
art, mentioned in the introduction to the tale, which the author orig- 
..aiiy intended. It was designed to refer to the heart of Robert Bruce. Jt 
is generally known that that great monarch, being on his death-bed, bequeath- 
ed to the good Lord James of Douglas, the task of carrying his heart to the 
Holy Land, to fulfil in a certain degree his own desire to perform a crusade. 
Upon Douglas’s death, fighting against the Moors in Spain, a sort of military 
hors d'cRuvre to which he could have pleaded no regular call of duty, his fol- 
lowers brought b vck the Bruce’s heart, and deposited it in the Abbey church 
of Melrose, the Kennaquhair of the tale. 

This Abbey had been always particularly favoured by the Bruce. We 
have already seen his extreme anxiety that each of the reverend brethren 
should be daily supplied with a service of boiled almonds, rice and milk, 
pease, or the like, to be called the King’s mess, and that without the ordinary 
service of their table being either disturbed in quantity or quality. But this 
was not the only mark of the benignity of good King Robert towards the 
monks of Melrose, since, by a charter of the date, 29th May, 1326, he con- 
ferred on the Abbot of Melrose the sum of two thousand pouiuls sterling, for 
rebuilding the church of St. Mary’s, ruined by the English j and there is little 
or no doubt that the principal part of the remains which now display such 
exquisite specimens of Gothic architecture, at its very purest period, had their 
origin in this munificent donation. The money was to be paid out of crown 
lamls, estates Ibrleited to the King, and other property or demesnes of the 
crown. 


264 


NOTES TO THE ABSOT. 


A very curious letter written to his son about three weeks before his death, 
nas been pointed out to me by my friend Mr. Thomas Thomson, Deputy- Reg'- 
ister for Scotland. It enlarges so much on the love of the royal writer to the 
community of Melrose, that it is well worthy of being inserted in a work con- 
nected in some degree with Scottish History. 

Litera Domini Regis Roberti ad filium Suum David. 

Robertas dei gratia Rex Scottorum, David precordialissimo filio suo, ac 
ceteris successoribus suisj Salutem, et sic ejus precepta tenere, ut cum sua 
benedictione possint regnare. Fili carissime, digue censeri videtur filius, qui, 
paternos in bonis mores imitans, piam ejus nititur exequi voluntatem j nec 
proprie sibi sumit nomen heredis, qui salubribus predecessoris afiectibus non 
adherit : Cupientes igitur, ut piam affectionem etscinceram dilectionem, quam 
erga monasterium de Melros, ubi cor nostrum ex speciali devotione disposui- 
mus tumulandum, et erga Religiosos ibidem Deo servientes, ipsorum vita 
sanctissima nos ad hoc excitante, concepimus 5 Tu ceterique successores mei 
pia scinceritate prosequamini, ut, ex vestre dilectionis affectu dictis Religiosis 
nostri causa post mortem nostram ostenso, ipsi pro nobis ad orandum fervencius 
et forcius annnentur : Vobis precipimus quantum possumus,instanter supplica- 
mus, et ex toto corde injungimus, Quatinus assignacionibus quas eisdem viris 
Religiosis et fabrica Ecclesie sue de novo fecimus ac eciam omnibus alils do- 
nacionibus nostris, ipsos libere gaudere permittatis, Easdem potius si necesse 
fuerit augmentantes (juam diminuentes, ipsorurn peticiones auribus benevolis 
admitleiites, ac ipsos contra suos invasores et emulos pia defensione prote- 
gentes. Hanc autem exhortacionem supplicacionem et preceptum tu, fili 
ceteri(]ue successores nostri, prestanti animo complere curetis, si nostram be- 
nedictionem habere velitis^ una cum benedictione filii summi Regis, qui filios 
docuit patrum voluntates in bono perficcre, asserens in mundum se venisse 
non ut suam voluntatem faceret sed paternam. In testimonium autem nostre 
devotionis erga locum predictum sic a nobis dilectum et electum concepte, 
presentem literam Religiosis predictis dimittimus, nostris successoribus in 

f osterum ostendendam. Data apud Cardros, undecimo die Maij, Anno 
legni nostri vicesimo quarto.” 

If this charter be altogether genuine, and there is no appearance of forgery, 
it gives rise to a curious doubt in Scottish history. The letter announces 
that the King had already destined his heart to be deposited at Melrose. The 
resolution to send it to Palestine, under the charge of Douglas, must have 
been adopted betwixt 11th May 1329, the date of the letter, and 7th June of 
the same year, when the Bruce died ; or else we must suppose that the com- 
mission of Douglas extended not only to taking the Bruce’s heart to Pales- 
tine, but to bring it safe back to its final place of deposit in the Abbey of 
Melrose. 

It would not be worth enquiring by what caprute the author was induced 
to throw the incident of the Bruce’s heart entirely out of the story, save mere- 
ly to say, that he found himself unable to fill up the canvass he had sketched, 
and indisposed to prosecute the management of the supernatural machinery 
with which his plan, when it was first rough-hewn, was connected and com- 
bined. 


END OF THE ABBOT 



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